


sometime yesterday

by esama



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-04 19:39:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 105,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14027337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: Desmond wakes up in a forest, nine years in the past.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread credit to nimadge

Desmond wakes up in the forest, his cheek against dry moss, something hard digging into his chest – fallen tree branch. There are leaves and roots and grass under his hands, winding into his fingers. Somewhere above him, there are birds, chirping.

After moment of laying there in confusion and strange, faded sort of wonder, he turns to lay on his back, awkwardly squirming to get the branch from under him, throwing it haphazardly to the side. It really is a forest – he's in an actual forest, with bushes to the left of him and canopy of tree branches and leaves above him, sunlight screening through their foliage. It feels and sounds real, the rustling of leaves, the slight dampness of the mosses under him, the touch of breeze on his chin. It even smells real.

When was the last time he'd seen a forest – a real, proper forest, not a simulated one in the Animus, or the well maintained one of the Central Park? He can't even remember – it had been years at least, years and about three life times. Four, if he counts his own.

Weird place to end up after death. Maybe it's his own brain simulating it now – in his final moments his last living brain cells desperately trying to reach for some peaceful, _cool_ image that is completely unlike the scorching agony of the Eye, burning him inside out? It's definitely cooler here, and more quiet too aside from the birds chirping. The sound of leaves is nice.

Damn, he's really dead, huh? Or dying, very soon.

Sighing, Desmond leans his head back and closes his eyes.

Maybe if he just lies here, the moment will stretch out on and he won't have to deal with whatever comes next, be it nothing or… or _something_. At this point, he'd kind of prefer it to be nothing. Just black void of nothing, no thoughts, no damn memories, nothing. Nothing to deal with or fear or worry or regret. Nothing at all.

A stray bit of grass tickles at his wrist and with a sigh Desmond lifts it to lie on his stomach. He can feel buttons, digging into his palm – he's wearing a jacket with buttons. Weird. It feels like… not fleece. Rougher, thicker, familiar…. _stiff_. He's wearing a denim jacket?

For a while he just lies there, his fingernails scraping at the stiff fabric, feeling around the stitches, the seams, the buttons. Underneath it he can feel cotton, and under that his own stomach, rising and lowering with breaths. Up with inhale and down with exhale, slow and easy.

Damn it feels nice just to breathe – the air is so clear here too. Earthy and damp and just _foresty_. It's nice. Weird, but nice.

Minute passes. Five. Ten maybe – and the moment doesn't end. The end doesn't come.

Desmond draws a breath and opens his eyes again. Above him, there's a flutter of wings as a bird takes flight, chirping its way out of there. Blinking, Desmond watches it go for a moment and then looks around. This place… it looks familiar. He knows these trees. Pines, birches, and spruces. The ground is uneven around him too – rising towards the left. Rising like up towards a hill… or a mountainside.

Suspicion rearing its ugly head, Desmond pushes himself up to lean onto his elbows before finally sitting up. Yeah, he knows this place. Dry, forest covered hill land, boring and utterly unremarkable. He even knows the bird song, he knows those birds – he listened to their chirping every damn spring of his youth.

This is Black Hills.

This is where he ran through to get away from the Farm. Whole night he spent running through these hills, through these forests, keeping barely track of the direction he was going by the sight of the moon over the branches, until clouds covered it and he couldn't see his way anymore. He stopped…. He stopped in the first dry place he could find and sat down to wait for the sun to rise so that he could keep going.

Slowly standing up, Desmond looks around. Yeah, _yeah_ this is the place. He ended up falling asleep here, exhausted and terrified, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest – he'd more passed out than slept, really. He woke up late in the morning, sun already climbing upwards – and instantly panicked and didn't stop running until he made it to the nearest road.

He jumped onto the first truck that would take a scruffy looking hitchhiker, like that, he'd been out.

Looking down on himself, Desmond isn't too surprised to find himself wearing the clothes he wore when he ran. Blue jeans and black denim jacket, grey hoodie under it. There's the backpack he'd squirreled away over several days, filling with essentials – and as much money as he'd been able to steal away, bit by bit. At that point of his life money had been sort of a abstract concept to it – he'd only visited a real store couple of times in his life in heavily supervised trip with his father, and they'd never felt too real. They were more like… things you saw on television. When ever the television worked, anyway.

Crouching down, Desmond rummages through the backpack. Two sets of clothes, rolled up with military precision into little packages. Medical supplies in a Ziploc bag, including everything you needed to extract a bullet. Food – MRE's, protein bars, supplements. Water in two canisters, and handful of pills to treat water gotten from the wild. Extra socks, switchblade and a Swiss knife, a flint stick… Hell, he even has a metal tin that can be used for cooking if he needs it.

Shit, he forgot how well he packed when he ran. Training of an Assassin, the stuff he worked about nine years to forget afterwards – he has a whole bug-out kit, right there. With this stuff, he could live on his own in the middle of nowhere for few days if he needed to.

Repacking everything as nearly as he'd found them, Desmond shakes his head, weirdly amused. Funny – everything the Assassins taught him, he'd used to get away. Distraction in the farm – he'd tampered with one of the generators, his father had spend all evening fixing it. Sneaking out – he'd worked about a week making his route out, making a gap in the fence bit by bit, loosening a window, carefully arranging a crate under it so that he could get out silently. He even prepared treats for the dogs to keep them quiet and mapped out the security cameras so that he could sneak by them without being caught.

It was a full on prison escape, and thanks to the harsh training he'd been put under all his youth, he got it pretty much perfect. Granted, the Farm hadn't precisely been designed to keep people in – all its protections were for detecting people coming in, and keeping them from getting in too easily, but still… He'd escaped the Assassins.

That's almost a thing to be proud of, isn't it? It fucked him over eventually, but for nine years he got everything right. Nine years, until he stopped caring and got complacent. Nine years on foot, and when he finally decides to get himself a set of wheels…

Ironic.

Idle, Desmond reaches for a nearby branch of a young, scrawny looking spruce, and snaps a bit of it off. The needles feel prickly and real in his fingers – and when he bites on them, the bitter tang is real.

It's been about twenty minutes now. He's still not gone.

"Right," Desmond mutters and touches his throat with a frown. "Weird," he mutters in a weirdly higher voice. Then, shaking his head, he hauls the backpack to his shoulders and stands up again, peering up at the sky. He headed south when he ran – then doubled back four times to mess up his tracks as much as he could. The Farm should be to the west of him now. Yeah, the hills are rising more to the west side – the Farm would be over them, hidden in a valley. Right.

To the east it is.

* * *

 

"Bit of an odd time to be hiking," the truck driver, Dan, says after Desmond has settled in on the shotgun seat, feeling impossibly small and scrawny in the enormous, swaying cockpit. "You sure you weren't with anyone?"

"Nah, it was a bit of a last moment decision," Desmond says. "I was doing a nature hike on one of the paths up there – it was supposed to be just couple days trip, but I got a bit lost."

"So, heading back to Rapid City?" the trucker asks.

The Assassins would be scouring the nearby settlements for him by now, as much as they dared to anyway. Rapid City would be one of them.

"Bit further away actually – where are you heading?" Desmond asks.

"Minneapolis," Dan says thoughtfully, giving him a look. "I can stop you anywhere along the way there, kid, but I should be there around midnight tonight, so I can't be taking any detours."

"Any chance I can catch a ride with you all the way?" Desmond asks. "I can pay you. Not much, but you know, a bit."

The trucker gives him a look.

"I got some friends up there, and I've got a flight booked from Minneapolis," Desmond explains. "It's three days from now, but anyway…"

"Oh? Where you from then, kid?"

"New York," Desmond says and then waves a hand at the look the man gives him. "Yeah, yeah, I'm long away from home, I know. I just like visiting little less known places for my breaks – you know, less touristy, more wild places?"

"Right," Dan says and rolls his eyes in that _kids these days_ way. "Well, I can get you to Minneapolis anyway. Buckle in kid – it's good six hundred miles until there. It's gonna take all day – and I ain't stopping for piss breaks except when I need 'em."

"I can live with that, thanks," Desmond says, and settles in.

* * *

 

It's around the sixth hour of the road trip – while taking a break in a wayside gas station – that Desmond figures that this isn't actually his imagination. The detail keeps piling up, bit by bit – the roads, the cars they pass, the breaks they take. Also, neither in Animus nor in hallucinations does he need to piss or take a shit, and there's something about the feeling of needed to take a bathroom break that's just a little too real to be anything but… real.

He's standing in front of a mirror in the gas station bathroom, eying his own face and trying to make sense of it when it finally settles in. There's a sixteen year old kid staring back at him from the mirror, just a hint of fuzz under his chin and his eyes clear, grey hood peeking out of a denim jacket collar, and it just… yeah. He's shorter, five foot seven or something, wouldn't get the last growth spurts until next year, which would tip him over six feet. His hair is longer – sticks up every which way too, and up at the front.

Running his hands through his hair, Desmond takes a deep breath and then releases it slowly.

"Shit," he mutters. His voice is still bit high – won't settle until next year too. That's why he decided to leave now, wasn't it? It had been logical. Last stages of adolescence, his voice is almost done cracking, his growth is almost done, he's already lost all of his baby fat…

Soon, he'd stop looking like a kid and start looking like the man he'd spend the rest of his – very short – life being. So, logically, it was good time to run. That way, the Assassins would keep on looking for the kid he used to be, while in the meantime he'd become a man they probably wouldn't be able to recognize.

In hindsight, he's damn proud of his younger self for figuring that stuff out – because it worked too. It worked, until the adult him got sloppy and put his fingerprints on things that led Abstergo to him. Still, the premeditation he put into his flight, it surprises him.

He was a lot smarter as a kid. Or, at least, better trained. He lost that in the years following – he'd spend those years wilfully and meaningfully forgetting, really. Becoming normal. Becoming weaker, sloppier.

Trying to become happier and ultimately failing at it.

Rolling his sleeves up, Desmond examines his arms. No tattoo and no puncture marks – his skin sits surprisingly tight on corded muscle. Farm training, obstacle courses, and fifty pull-ups and push ups and sit ups and the rest of the bullshit, every damn day. Under the denim jacket and grey hoodie he knows he already has a damn six pack, at age of fucking sixteen.

At sixteen he has a body of an Assassin. It's almost funny. Body of an Assassin… and memories of four of them. Five, if you include Haytham, what little of him Desmond really learned.

And it's not just four-to-five Assassins either, but future too. Nine years of future. It's two thousand and three, now – March the 13th, 2003. Nine years before the end of the world. Nine years of freedom, before Abstergo, Lucy, his _father_ and the Pieces of Eden. Nine years before his own death.

Squeezing his hand into fist and feeling the muscles under the skin of his arm flex, Desmond flicks his wrist back. No hidden blade. Assassins of modern times rarely use them; guns are just more efficient, sniper rifles far easier to kill with. Death isn't nearly as difficult when it's done from half a mile away at the pull of a trigger – rather than up close, feeling the blood splatter, face to face with the horror of it. Less chance of being caught on surveillance footage too.

He misses the blade now, the comfortable, secure weight of it on his arm.

"Shit," Desmond mutters again and hangs his head for a moment.

Then he washes his hands, and heads back out to finish his coffee with Dan. Another three hours at minimum until Minneapolis. Maybe by then he will have some idea about where to go and what to do.

* * *

 

He could go back to the Farm. He could. He'd be disciplined to hell and back and put under restrictions that would probably last until kingdom come, but he could go back and people might even be relieved to see him. His mother at least would be – and Desmond would be happy to see her, even if it came at the cost of his father beating him half to death. He hadn't seen her since, not even after being included "back" into the Assassins' Order. He could… go back and change that. He could go back.

Like _hell_ he will, but he could. It's an option. Options are good.

And what are his other options? Make his way to New York and become bartender again? That took some work, though – it took about two years of infinitely shittier jobs and worse hands dealt his way. It took lot of bad decisions. It took alcohol and drugs and getting his ass beaten more than once. In the end, it took pity from his eventually employer. _Come on in, kid. Let me show you how to fix a martini…_

Desmond Miles, the Bartender. He could be that again. Bury his head in that alcohol soaked sand and pretend the world was _just fine_ without him. Maybe it even would be.

Hah. Yeah, no. That's… not happening again.

What else then? Head to the Grand Temple? Get the Key, hunt down the power sources somehow magically without Rebecca's and Shaun's back up? Good luck with that. Well, he can get the Key anyway, that'll be easy, all he has to do is rob a grave, no biggy. It wouldn't do anything for him yet, but it would be good to have. Though on other hand… it's safe where it is right now. Safe until – and if – it would be needed.

So, then what? Roam around the world as an aimless vagabond?

Or…

Desmond leans his elbow onto the armrest of the truck door, watching the forests and fields and roads pass him by, and wonders…

How hard would it be at this point to get fake ID, a passport, and a flight out of the US? He knows some people, but are those people good enough is another question. They're not _Assassin_ good, he doesn't think. But they might be _staying out of Abstergo's radar_ good. After all, right now, Abstergo doesn't even know he exists. The Animus Project isn't yet up and running properly. People's genes don't _yet_ have the value they would eventually.

It might be enough for him to slip away, unnoticed… might be.

"What's in your mind, kid?" trucker Dan asks, casually steering with one hand while reaching for a can of coke with another.

"Thinking about my next trip," Desmond admits and glances at him. "Ever been to Europe?"

"No, I can't say I have," Dan says. "Furthest I've been is to Mexico and once or twice to Canada that wasn't much of a trip. What's in Europe?"

"The old world?" Desmond asks and shrugs. "I've done the hipster thing of visiting unknown places – maybe next time I'll go to a proper public tourist trap. You know, get the whole experience."

Dan shakes his head. "Damn. In your age I was lucky if I got to make a trip down to the mall," he mutters. "Damn, kid, you must have some money to burn."

Not really – Desmond has few hundred and it's not enough buy him even a halfway decent fake IDs, or get him a ticket out of US. Which is another problem – or it would be until he found a good place to pickpocket people for a bit. It was early 2000's anyway – people hopefully would still be carrying more cash than plastic cards. After all… digital era hadn't quite yet taken over everything.

Mobile phones were still keypad based too – poor Dan still has a old Nokia, and the guy's so proud of it too, the car kit he has for the thing which kind of looks like GPS thing, except… it isn't a GPS. Just a way to hook the phone onto the dashboard and use it with a sort of remote for actual _phone calls_ , no maps or really any proper smart functions in sight.

iPhone isn't really a thing yet, which is kinda… weird.

"So you're parents rich or something?" Dan asks.

"Nah, not really. I just work summer jobs and stuff," Desmond muses and leans back, thinking about future, about stuff coming up. He never much paid attention to the stuff – in his position keeping track of most modern tech just wasn't that safe. But he hadn't been completely blind to it. "It's all about how you save it. And maybe… maybe how you invest it…"

"Jeez," Dan mutters. "Kids these days."

* * *

 

It's nearly pitch-black when they arrive in Minneapolis and say their goodbyes.

"I don't know what you're up to, kid, but I wish you luck with it," Dan says. "Don't get into trouble now."

"I'll try not to," Desmond says and waves a hand at him. "Thanks for the lift."

Dan heads to a truck stop to have a nap in his truck before delivering the actual cargo he was hauling in few hours. Desmond heads off to wherever, to aimlessly wander the dark streets of Minneapolis wherever the cameras aren't watching. To figure out his next move.

He has a list of problems and potential solutions.

Problem one; money, getting it, and getting it safely. Pickpocketing is a short term solution, thievery and burglary another, he could get by with that if he had to, he'd just… prefer not to.

Potential solution one; investing in tech he knows will gain popularity in future, into companies developing them. He's met enough bankers back in Bad Weather to sort of figure it out, maybe. It would probably be pretty good way to get a _lot_ of money, in long term. Except of course that lead to…

Problem two; identity, hiding his own and faking a new one. He'd need money to get it done properly and he can't trust that it will be done well enough – and even if he gets it done perfectly there is still a problem of genes and shit. Abstergo will need only one good blood sample to trace his genes and then, once Animus would be up and running properly and Ezio Auditore would be pinned down as The Guy with the Apple, he'd be screwed.

Potential solution to that… uh. Get really good fake ID and don't get blood drawn, ever? That worked for nine years last time, but this time he isn't going to hide in the back of a dingy alley or in shadowy little bar. He has stuff to do this time. Lot of it.

Problem three; getting all that actually done… and not getting caught either by Assassins, Abstergo or the actual _authorities_ while doing it. Alas, what his Assassin training did not include was contacts in the underworld. And even if it did, he couldn't use that, because, after all… they'd be Assassin contacts.

Potential solution… someone on the outside. Someone good, better than Abstergo at least, maybe better than the Assassins. Someone who might be persuaded to not work for either party.

 _Someone_ , Desmond thinks while tucking his hood up to hide his face, _like Clay Kaczmarek_.

Clay had been in Desmond's head – and Desmond in his – for a bit. In the Animus Island they had… mingled a lot in ways Desmond has tried to not think too hard since. Clay died after – died again, really – so there wasn't really any point thinking about it, it just made him feel sad and guilty. But now…

Clay Kaczmarek would be around twenty one years old now, in college if Desmond remembers it right – getting his engineering degree, being a normal pre-Assassin and Templar war person. It's kind of… awful to involve him into the whole thing while the guy still has a chance of being normal, but at the same time…

Even if Desmond leaves well enough alone, Clay will get recruited eventually anyway. The guy had the bad luck of being related to Ezio after all – even if William Miles didn't find him, then it would be Abstergo's Lineage Acquisitions who would, eventually. After all, Clay didn't know to hide his own genetic history, and for all that Ezio slept around like nobody's business, he didn't have that many clear descendants. Clay would be easy pickings to whoever got to him first.

It might just as well be Desmond.

* * *

 

Desmond hovers at the edge of the darkened campus, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, hood pulled up. It's taken him good half a week to get here from Minneapolis, all the while accumulating funds wherever he could as he travelled. Now, four days, a haircut, two clothing changes and couple thousand miles later, he's here.

And somewhere in here is Clay Kaczmarek, going to school like good college student, trying to become a normal contributing member of the society. And Desmond is about to destroy his life. Or make it better, depending on the point of view.

He's… still not sure if this is a good idea. For one, Clay became hacker out of necessity – and only after being trained by William Miles for the specific task of breaking into Abstergo. He wouldn't be anywhere near that good yet… but he would eventfully. And hacking the Animus, that's on a whole level of its own. It takes more than just smarts.

Desmond is kind of relying on that covering more subjects than ancestral memories, here. Which, all things considered… is probably dumb of him.

Sighing, Desmond leans his shoulder onto the wall next to him and hangs his head. There are lot of cameras here. They're pretty low quality, wouldn't catch his face unless he went up to French kiss one – and internet isn't yet at the Cloud Storage stage anyway, so chances are that whatever they record is only stored in internal systems and even that only temporarily. It's still enough to make him uneasy and nervous, though.

Clay is his best, his _safest_ bet though. He can't go to anyone he knows. Even if Shaun hasn't been recruited yet, he would be eventually. Rebecca… Desmond doesn't even know when she joined, or why. And he has no idea where to find either of them, inside or out the Assassin Order. Lucy had gone undercover seven years before they met – Rebecca had known her already then. Two years from now, which… probably means they already do know each other.

And Lucy… is a born Assassin and eventual turncoat. That's a whole barrel of worms and Desmond is not getting anywhere near it, thank you very much.

Desmond checks his watch. Midnight. The school campus is dark now, most lights turned down for the night – the college building itself is almost completely dark. Time to get moving.

Avoiding the cameras isn't hard – they're all stationary and their fields of view limited, it's pretty simple getting around them even before he starts climbing rooftops. After that, it becomes piece of cake – just stay low and press on. The fact that the campus guards stick to ground level and there's no snipers on rooftops to fear makes the whole thing bit of a breeze – it feels almost too easy, even. Easier than anything in future – or in the Animus – had ever been, anyway.

It doesn't hurt that his sixteen year old body is trained to the brink – it feels pretty much _weightless_ , to freerun in it. It doesn't so much vault as it _flies_ over obstacles, easy and nimble. Damn, he really wasted something good when he let his training fall to the wayside – even after months in the future, he could never do the sort of splits and bends this younger body does as easy as breathing.

On the third floor of the actual school building there is a window open – Desmond rolls right into it from the rooftop, and lands silently on a desk inside. A classroom – not particularly useful. He needs an office – preferably, a dean's office.

Someplace where he can find a list of students – and their addresses.

It takes him almost four hours of roaming in the dark corridors and hallways, avoiding the few campus guards who roam them at night. It's easy but a bit tedious to peek into rooms and to break through half a dozen locked doors only to find nothing useful behind them. Worse yet are the computers that might be useful – but which naturally are password locked.

Without Rebecca's voice in his ear, Desmond has no hope of breaking into them. He's never been much of a tech guy, and brute forcing it without right tech in the middle of the night in the damn _early 2000s_ …yeah, forget it.

It's starting to turn to dawn when he finally gets something useful. The administrator's wing – and there, a secretary's office. Their computer is powered down and password locked just as was everyone else's was – but what they hadn't locked… is the file cabinets.

And there are folders for all the students currently in attendance. And under K, there is Kaczmarek, Clay, Class of 2002, student in the Engineering department.

"Oh, Clay," Desmond mutters, glancing through the teacher's notes on the guy – one complains attention deficiencies and absences, other praises for high quality work, attention to detail and perfections. Suspected ADHD and OCD at work there. He's getting pretty good marks, though – scoring tests in As. He's also taking a programming class – and _acing it_ judging by the looks of it, which is very promising.

But what Desmond is after is his current address on campus – and his class schedule, both of which the file supplies nicely. Quickly taking a clunky 2003's digital camera he acquired not so legally from a poor tourist along the way, Desmond snaps a few pictures of the file and then eases it back into the cabinet.

Tomorrow, sometime after Clay's classes let out… he'd see if he could exchange a few words with him.

* * *

 

In the early morning the next day, Desmond scouts the campus area more fully, blending into the milling student population and wandering aimlessly amidst them. Blending in is easy when you fit right in age wise it turns out – but also, Ezio's courtesan tricks weren't just mechanical. Something about that acquired body language just made people… not mind him walking shoulder to shoulder with them.

Like that Desmond figures out where he might catch Clay. The guy’s dormitory is on the north side and his classes are on a building on the opposite end of the campus grounds – logically, Clay would walk right through the place on his way home. Problem being, people aren't always logical. Clay least of all. He could still take a wildly different route.

In the end there's nothing to it but wait – unless he wanted to break into the school and Desmond really doesn't want to risk making noise about himself. He's not in hurry – he can wait and see.

Wait and watch with Eagle Eyes blazing away under his hood.

He's never had a proper chance to watch normal people with Eagle Eyes, not outside Animus simulations anyway. In the simulations people are just that, though – simulations, empty and hollow but for their appearances and how they happened to interact with Desmond's ancestors, hundreds of years ago. In Animus, large majority of people are just grey, neither good nor bad, just insignificant.

In reality, everyone has a colour and the colours have shades. They're mostly faded out colours, very light reds and blues, barely visible, with colours blending to shades of purple. Some people have even shimmers of green on them. It's interesting and weird and more logical than the simplified colour coding of friends and enemies, really. And he'd never realised it before.

The colours aren't tags – they're shades of people's personality. Or... no, not personality. Thoughts, emotions – their general mood, maybe. Red is aggression and blue is calm – or maybe, understanding? And no one is just the one thing – it all blends and mixes. And the longer he looks, the more… the more it seems like it's not really even a colour at all, is it? It's just… it's a feeling that people have with them. Or energy.

Yeah it makes sense now – how differently his ancestors saw things. Ezio even learned to see echoes of people's presence after they'd already gone – he was reading the after image of the energy people had within them, and Connor way of marking people… and of course that thing how sometimes object glowed golden with importance – like footsteps and touch and echoes of presences, people's thoughts lingered on things.

This, Desmond thinks, is the Sixth Sense of the First Civilisation.

It's also what the Pieces of Eden manipulate to enforce their power on people – they tap into the energy and twist it. And with enough of the energy… thought could become reality.

The understanding sits heavy in his head like a rock – and then he sees _gold_ splitting through the glow of light blues and faded reds. Clay, marked in shade and feeling by Desmond's own interest, blazes in the crowd.

Desmond blinks out of Eagle Vision just as Clay passes him by, carrying a backpack on one hand and cellphone in other. He's writing a text, it looks like, thumb working madly over the keypad. He's younger, his hair shorter, darker – he walks a bit hunched. Less confident more self-conscious – when people stand in his way he jumps around them awkwardly.

Desmond watches him go and then rises to follow. He's still not sure what he's going to say but whatever it is, out in the open isn't the place. Better to tail him to the dorms – or somewhere with less people anyway.

Clay never notices him, his attention completely on the phone - he's barely looking where he's going, never mind looking behind. Desmond thus makes all the way through the campus grounds and to the dormitories before Clay even glances at him and even then it's only to look away quickly, unlocking dormitories’ front doors before ducking inside.

Desmond – who is starting to feel a bit like a stalker now – follows him in before the doors can close after him.

Clay turns, looks at him again and frowns. "Okay, you're definitely following me – and definitely too young to have a room here," he says and shoves his phone to his pocket. "If you got a friend here, tell _them_ to come and open a door for you, kid, I'm not going to –"

Clay reaches out to push Desmond back through the open door, his hand impacting Desmond's chest with an audible zap, like static electricity being discharged. Clay jumps at it and freezes, his eyes widening.

And then Clay's eyes roll back and he collapses onto the floor in a dead faint.


	2. Chapter 2

Clay wakes up in a bed. There's a juxtaposition of thoughts in that, overlapping of concepts. On one hand, it's perfectly normal – he wakes up in a bed most days, really, and the few days he falls asleep at his desk or in class only make the fact that bed is where he should be sleeping all that much more obvious. But on other hand… on other, bloodier hand…

There's a pillow under his head – no blanket over him, though, he's lying on top of the covers. No shoes, but he's wearing clothes – trousers, shirt, sweater, jacket, the works. Socks on his feet, warm, bit too tight around the ankle – he'll have indents on his skin when he takes them off. Light on his face, natural, sun from a nearby window – it's daytime, then, and there's a _window_.

He knows this arrangement though – he wakes up here every day, doesn't he? He has, for over half a year now, aside from the Christmas break when he'd gone back to his father – his father who…

There's someone there. A creak of wood, soft, cushioned – bed, shifting and complaining under someone's weight. Right, his roommate. Except – no.

Clay turns his head to look and thinks, _Assassin_.

The overlap crashes down on him like tidal wave then – superimposed on the hooded kid on the other bed is an Italian man-whore and that Russian guy, and that Chinese chick and – fuck – his head – it _hurts_.

He tries to get up, but the best his suddenly spinning mind can manage is him turning to his side, hold collapsing on his front, burying his face in the covers. They're cool, blissfully cool against his forehead, against the pounding of memories – of data – as it settles into new chambers and shit, he can feel it – he can feel the _bed under him_.

"Holy shit" Clay whispers, and claws at the fabric. The bed cover, an old blanket, frayed and worn - he can feel it. It's not just a simulation, uniform and featureless – he can _feel the imperfections._ And temperature! There's a snagged piece of yarn that catches on a side of his nail, a detail far too insignificant and perfect and stupid to be included and – _he can feel it_.

It's not just in his head, he can feel the touch of that little bit of yarn, the tug of it against his nail, it's _real_.

"What the _fuck_ ," Clay breathes, collapsing down and staring at the little curl of yarn, tugging at it in wonder. When he releases it, it springs back into place, stretched out but still curling, like it has no doubt curled for thousands of days. Real, real, real -

No, but – what?

What the hell is he thinking? It's just a bit of yarn on the stupid duvet, what the hell is he having a panic attack about it for? He's in his dorm room, lying on the bed, fully clothed – and there's some guy there who isn't his roommate.

"Where's Ted?" Clay asks, confused.

"Your roommate? I paid him to go be elsewhere for a while."

Clay blinks and looks up. No overlapping images now – it's just the kid there, sitting on Ted's bed, one leg propped up, face shadows under a light grey hood. In his hand he – he has a knife?

"Who are you?" Clay asks and slowly pushes himself up – wincing at the spike of pain driving it's way through his head. "How did you get here? Why the hell do you have a _knife_ – you –"

The kid looks up, and Clay knows his name. Again, an overlap – a kid from his class, no, yes, _of course not_. No, this one doesn't go to the college here, never had, never would, he's – " _Desmond_ ," Clay whispers.

The kid flips the knife in is hand and aims the blade at him. "What the hell did you do, Clay?"

A laugh bubbles out of Clay, unintentional and helpless, and then he's scrambling down from the bed, almost falling over as his legs get tangled in the old duvet. Desmond shifts where he sits and grabs the knife in reverse grip – it's on Clay's throat before he makes it over, and so he freezes on his knees on the floor between the beds.

"Look at you," Clay whispers. "What the hell happened to you, you're a _brat_?"

"Answers the question – what did you do?" Desmond says and presses in with the knife. There's a hint of a bite, but the blade doesn't cut in – Desmond knows just the angle to hold it to make him feel the danger of it, without doing actual damage with it. "Did you do this, is this – did _you_ make this happen?"

"I – I don't even know what's going on," Clay says, swallowing – swing to the left, and he's a college student again, the weird fracturing… thing in his head listing to the side, slipping from his head. "Fuck, my head," Clay groans and leans back, away from the knife, grabbing at his temple. "What the hell is going on?"

The kid – Desmond? – watches him silently and then shifts on the bed again, setting both feet on the ground, leaning his weight onto his knees with his elbows. "You did something, didn't you, when you got me out of Animus Island," he says.

"What the hell is that?" Clay asks, shaking his head, swaying – fuck, is he having a migraine? "I don't –"

"You _did_ something," Desmond insists and turns the knife in his hand. "Packaged yourself up somehow and layered yourself on me, right? Like an attachment, waiting for a new body, something you can decompress your memories on. Right?"

Clay sways. "What – yes?" he asks, and then he almost knows. "Yes, I – just a little bit. Just the important things – just the –" The Assassins, William Miles, Abstergo – _JUNO_! "F-fuck," he groans and bows over, gasping for a breath. "Fuck me, my head –"

"Not fully settled in yet, huh?" Desmond asks.

"Shit –" Clay answers and groans, rocking his torso to and fro for a moment, trying to ease – something. The pressure in his head maybe, or just the memories, unspooling in his head.

He's twenty one year old college kid, engineering student – though what he really wants to study is programming.

He's an Assassin personally trained by the Mentor of the Order himself for his _very special mission_ in Abstergo.

He's Abstergo's Subject 16, slowly unravelling at the seams as they dissected his genetic history and left him bleeding all over the Animus table.

He's a construct in the Animus Island.

He's –

"What the hell?" Clay asks the floor, feeling his eyes strain, his blood pounding in his head – there's sweat on his forehead and it's dripping onto the carpet. "What the hell, what the hell? How the fuck? Is this – this is my body? _Fuck…_ "

Desmond doesn't say anything for a moment, just leaning down over him, watching him. "Right," he says then and stands, and moment later there's hands on Clay, hauling him up. "Bed or bathroom?"

"W-what?"

"Are you going to pass out or throw up – bed or bathroom?"

Clay hesitates and then his body decides it for him – "Bathroom."

Desmond nods, the knife nowhere in sight, and hauls him to the bathroom to empty his stomach and then dry heave into the toilet for the next half an hour or so. It does nothing to settle his fracturing mind – but if nothing else it proves he's right. He's in a body. In his _own body_.

There's nothing like feeling yourself upchuck to figure out whose body you're driving, really.

"What the hell is this, Desmond?" Clay asks, wiping at his mouth, leaning his forehead onto the blessedly cool surface of the porcelain sink. "My body's dead – it died – how am I – " he stops to stare at his hand, and then shakily pulls his sleeve down. No scars, no wounds, no blood. "How?"

Desmond sighs, and sits on the bathroom floor beside him. "Few days back I woke up in Black Hills," he says. "Just… nine years back in time," he says. "Came to find you because I need something from you – didn't expect this exactly. What the hell did you do?"

Clay closes his eyes. "Water," he croaks.

Desmond looks at him flatly and then reaches up to turn the tap on before reaching for the shower head. Without a second thought, Clay turns it on himself and soaks his face with the outpour, heedless of his clothes getting wet and the mess he's making. Fuck, it feels _glorious_. Cold and _real_.

"I – it was like a backup. You know, just in case," Clay gasps, after rinsing his mouth and drinking his fill and getting water everywhere. "It wasn't really – it wasn't the whole thing, just essentials. Just in case."

"Just in case what, I ran into something you could hijack? Like a comatose body?" Desmond asks.

"I was thinking more along the lines of Animus with enough unused data storage. Or maybe computer. I could've done with the internet," Clay says and drops the shower head. As he just breathes for a moment, Desmond reaches up to turn the faucet off again. "You travelled back in time?" Clay then asks, disbelieving.

"Apparently. Don't ask me how – it just happened," Desmond answers and leans back again. "I died and then I woke up."

"You – died."

"Yeah – at the Grand Temple. The device, the one that was supposed to save the world, it killed me," Desmond says and lifts his knees up, to lean his elbows on them. "Doubt it was intentional, though. I mean, the time travelling. Juno wouldn't have done it, not when she just got what she wanted."

Clay frowns a bit at that and then lifts his head, wincing. "This is insane," he mutters and wipes the water from his eyes. "I'm just a college student – what the hell is this?"

He'd just been in class. He has homework – he's late on assignment too, he should be working on it. Two days left until he got another chance to turn it in – he was supposed to work on it all day today to get it done and – _the hell does that matter when in nine years the world might end?_

The bathroom is quiet but for the dripping of water and Clay's own harsh breaths. "I – didn't lie to you," he says then. "I was helping you get out of the Island – you needed my help. I didn't lie just to piggyback on you out of there. I just…" also did that, while doing the other thing.

Desmond says nothing, watching him, still with a hood on. Then he sighs and gets up. "Have a proper shower, Clay, and dry up before you catch a cold," he says and turns to leave the bathroom. "I'll get you some dry clothes."

The door closes after him, and for a moment Clay stares at it, at the seam of light under it – a shower. Hell, when was the last time he did that? When was the last time he _needed_ that?

Yesterday. Last lifetime.

With a groan, Clay stands up and starts getting the wet clothes off, his hands shaking almost too badly to manage it. Under them, there is a body, real and physical, with bones and muscles and sinews and flesh and _blood_.

A sound escapes him as he feels the touch of cold air on the wet skin of his belly. He's panting by the time he gets his trousers off, gasping for breath like a drowning man, half hyperventilating. When he finally makes it under the shower he's sobbing, helpless and grateful and _alive._

* * *

 

Desmond is still there when Clay gets out, sitting now on Clay's bed, examining an old cell phone – _Clay's_ cell phone. He looks weird – smaller than Clay remembers. He'd been taller than Desmond when the guy had been an adult – now he isn't and so Clay is even taller. Another weird juxtaposition.

"How old are you?" Clay asks, scrubbing a towel against his wet hair. "How old am I – when is this?"

"March 19, 2003," Desmond answers, pressing button on the cell phone and dropping it onto the duvet. "I'm sixteen – you're twenty one."

"Yeah – yeah, I see it," Clay mutters. He remembers it – classes, school, teachers. It's not as close to the surface as the memories from future, but it's more solid, that life – real life experienced by a real person. The data stored in the construct is more artificial – more demanding of his attention, but far less concrete. "Nine years, huh? Why here?"

Desmond doesn't answer immediately, looking at him. Clay looks back – the moment stretches, weird and not awkward enough. When you've been inside person's memories, it's hard to get fully awkward with them. "What?"

"I probably did it," Desmond says finally. "The timing – I woke up here just after I ran from the Farm, just after they lost me in the forest. I – when I activated the Eye, I probably was… regretting it."

"And that made time travel possible?" Clay asks, but not dubiously. With the damn Pieces of Eden you could never tell – and there were the memories the construct had been very careful in packaging up for his… backup file. "Did you save the world?"

"Think so, but then I died, so… who knows," Desmond sighs and leans his head back against the wall. "I don't know."

Clay wraps the towel around his neck and then sits down on the bed beside him. "Did you figure it out?" he asks. "What Juno was really after?"

"Yeah," Desmond answers and closes his eyes. "Minerva appeared in the end and told us. Juno was imprisoned at the Grand Temple – using the Eye to save the world let her loose. She's gonna try and enslave humanity again."

Clay draws a breath and then releases it. "Well shit," he mutters and runs a hand over his face. His head still aches but the data package is settling in now. Nine years of it.

Some memories of school, of graduating – of working in a boring shitty job for a while, before William Miles found him and took him under his wing. Training, being a novice, becoming an Assassin, breaking into Abstergo. It's not all of it – the construct had omitted a lot of stuff, sticking only to the most important. The path to the end of the world.

No ancestral memories, thank fuck, just vague knowledge that they were a thing the future-past him had been forced to endure, but not details.

"You, uh," Clay says and looks to Desmond, at his smooth young face. He doesn't even have the decency to have acne despite being a teenager. "How much _you_ are you?"

Desmond opens his eyes. "All of me and four other people on top," he says and shakes his head. "It's fine though – I don't… I don't _Bleed_ anymore. Or at least I haven't so far."

"So you got all your memories from future?" Clay asks. "All of it? What about the… kid you, he in there?"

Desmond frowns and looks away, searching mid air for answers. "No," he says then. "There's just me."

"Huh," Clay says.

They're quiet for a moment, Clay using the towel to rub at his hair a little more while Desmond stares at nothing. "Shit," Clay then says. "I'm gonna get an aspirin or something. You need one?"

"I'm good," Desmond says and watches him get up and go to the little kitchen corner in the front of the room, closest to the door.

It's such a mundane thing, to rummage through the medicine box in the cupboard and to get a glass of water to wash it all down, but it calms him down a little. Clay sways by the kitchenette for a moment after, willing, the pill to work faster – it wouldn't of course, but one can hope.

Him – or the construct him anyway – had wanted to preserve something of Clay Kaczmarek. Something, _anything_ had to remain. He hadn't wanted to die, hadn't wanted to disappear – brushed aside as another nameless Subject in the Animus Project, insignificant and forgotten. Fuck no. Something had to _remain_.

_You're not going to just fucking delete me – this is not how I go out!_

He'd hoped that one day, somehow, Desmond would get in contact with something that could receive that package of essential data, enough for the miracle of execution to repeat, and for Clay Kaczmarek to defragment himself again. The wish for another body had been a mad, foolish, hopeless one, he hadn't ever thought he could ever have _that_ again. But a computer, a network, hell, a storage device, anything… something that would keep him and preserve him…

Clay lifts his hand and eyes his palm, his fingers. Animus had recreated them perfectly, but without the right texture, resistance, give and weight. The stretch of skin, the weight of fingers, the feel of bones, the limit of their reach… Animus couldn't recreate that. And the feel of _sensation_. The coolness of the glass in his hand, the bite of the edge of the counter against his hip, the water in his belly… the raw burn of the vomiting lingering still in the back of his throat…

Clay releases a shaking breath and squeezes his hand into fist before he does something stupid with it. Like trying to gag himself on his own fingers, or get a knife to cut himself or, _fuck_ –

"Clay," Desmond says. "I – uh. Should I be sorry for this?"

Clay blinks and turns to him. "Fuck no," he says. "I'm _alive_ again, Desmond. You don't get to be sorry about it."

Desmond releases a breath, heavy and relieved. "Okay," he says.

It's not precisely true though. Clay Kaczmarek is alive – but Subject 16 is dead. The construct of memories was… not the actual man. What he has now is just echoes of the person who'd killed himself to deliver a message. Message which now…

"Does this mean none of it mattered?" Clay mutters, trying to concentrate. The pain, the waiting, the slow corruption… it's all been undone now, except not quite, there's still him with these memories, only the time… the time is different. "Was there any point to it now?" And if not, then what the hell had Subject 16 died for?

"There was a point," Desmond promises him and Clay looks up. "And now we got a second chance. See?" he pushes the hood down, finally. "We got nine more years, Clay."

"To do it all over again." Clay says slowly, watching him. Shit, he's so _young_. No beard, not even hint of it – maybe little bit of fuzz under the chin, but it's baby fuzz at most. He already has the scar though – and not just has it, but it looks fresh, all red and angry.

"So, now what?" Clay asks and frowns. "You came to me for something – what is it?"

"Help," Desmond answers wryly. "Didn't think this would happen but… whatever. I need IDs and stuff so that I can get out of the country."

Clay frowns. "And you think I can get them for you," he says. "That twenty-one year old version of me could."

Desmond says nothing for a moment. "Did you make me come to you?" he asks then quietly. "Is that why I thought to come here – because of this?" he motions between them. "The transfer?"

"I…" Clay trails off and looks away. "It might've played a part," he admits then. "On a subconscious level."

Desmond sighs and hangs his head. "Okay," he says then leans back again, looking resigned. "Okay then."

Another long silence, while Clay rubs a palm across his neck, feeling his throat work as he swallows, feeling his blood pound in its arteries. He's still shaking. "Why – why do you want to leave the US?"

"I want to go to Italy and get the Apple of Eden," Desmond says and closes his eyes again. "See if I can figure… something to do, something that wouldn't involve Juno. She's still in the Grand Temple – and I'd kind of prefer she stayed there."

Clay's eyes widen as the implications settle in. The Apple of Eden – the fucking… _Apple of_ _Eden_. Desmond knows where it is – he really could go and just _get it_ and no one would stop him because no one else knows where it is right now. No one else is looking. Nine years with the thing, nine unhindered years….

"I want to come with you," Clay says. "I _will_ come with you."

Desmond opens his eyes. "You have a life," he points out. "A normal, peaceful life. Education and all that –"

"I got _stuff in my head,_ " Clay answers and quickly moves forward, sitting on the bed on his knees. "And what do I have here, really – education I will never use, father who will only ever use me for money – shit… I don't want this life, I never wanted it. You've been in my memories – you _know I don't_!"

Desmond says nothing, pulling one leg up awkwardly, shifting his weight. "I would've killed to have life like that," he mutters. "Normal life."

"Okay, fuck, let's do a swap – you can sit around here useless until William comes along to fuck up everything and then Abstergo breaks your head open like overripe melon," Clay snaps and reaches for Desmond's arm, gripping at it desperately. "I want – shit, I want…"

He'd become a pincushion of memories for the sake of the Apple of Eden. Juno had scraped his broken brain up afterwards and patched it together with commands and lies and promises, stitching it together into a messy whole just so that he could _help Desmond Miles_. Now he can – just without the rest of it, without any of it, and at the same time –

"I – I want to see it," Clay says.

"The Apple of Eden?" Desmond asks warily.

"Yes – but no. All if it," Clay says desperately and waves a hand. "What's behind that curtain, I want to break it open and see it. All of it. I want to be there – Desmond, at this point haven't I fucking earned the right to be there? Don't I _deserve_ to see? Don't I –"

He's shuddering all over and his voice is growing thin. All those glimpses, he barely recalls them now – just the puzzles he put together to hide it all, the paintings and portraits and codes, it all compiles in his head, _pulsing_ with hot white gold of importance. "Don't I deserve the Truth?" he halfway pleads.

Desmond sighs, and after moment of hesitation he rests a hand on Clay's fingers, clutching onto the fabric of his sleeve. "You do," he murmurs. "You deserved better."

Clay stares at him, frantic and wary. "I –" he starts to say but Desmond looks at him – and he knows. He knows. It's okay. "Fuck," Clay mutters and flexes his fingers on Desmond's arm. "You need IDs," he says. " _We_ need IDs."

"Can you do it?" Desmond asks.

Clay thinks about it, bowing his head. "I can hack – no, it's, it's 2003. I can do one better," he says and looks up. He can feel Desmond's arm under the cloth of his hoodie – it's solid with muscle. Trained. _Assassin level trained_. "If you feel like doing a bit of breaking and entering… I can make us real ones."

"Real ones?" Desmond asks slowly.

"Right from the system itself – _real_ ones," Clay agrees and then tears himself off Desmond and goes for his desk instead – and on that desk, his desktop computer. It's 2003. It's _2003_. "Not everything is online yet," Clay says and starts the thing up, sliding onto the chair in front of it. "Things haven't gone fully digital yet – it's all paperwork."

"Won't that make things harder?" Desmond asks, standing up and coming to his side.

"Maybe, maybe not," Clay says. "But nothing is as good a fake ID as the one issued by the government. Give me a day – I can do this."

* * *

 

Clay loses himself in the work, into the tak-tak of the keyboard, the sluggish speed of the internet, working his way into it, under it, and to where he needs to be. It's all still so primitive even compared to how it was just around the time of his Assassin training – Google isn't the giant it became later and everything is still shitty late nineties design. And _slow_ as balls. Compared to the Animus…

But that only makes it easier to work into, really – the defences of tomorrow aren't in place yet, and what's there is nowhere good enough to keep him out. Like that he finds what he needs to know, gets the info he needs and eventually, can direct Desmond right to it.

"I am assuming here you still got all your training and whatnot," Clay says, looking the kid version of Subject 17 over as Desmond reads through the instructions he'd printed out. "If you're anywhere as good as I think you are, breaking in should be piece of cake."

"Hm," Desmond answers. "So I'm just going to break into a government office, just like that. _Nice_."

"I'm in the system here," Clay says, motioning at his computer. "I can talk you through it, erase your footprints once you're done."

"Somehow I can't help but think that getting fakes done would be… _infinitely_ easier that this," Desmond mutters, frowning at the instructions. "This is kinda overkill, don't you think?

"Even Abstergo can't tell they're fake if they come from the actual institution," Clay shrugs and looks at him. "We need them to be good, better than good, or we're toast. Can't get better than this – and these come with identities, histories, backgrounds. Better than just a bit of paper."

Desmond says nothing for a moment, finishing reading through the instructions. "Right," he says then and lifts his head. "Why am still Desmond and you still Clay, though, isn't that a bit… risky?"

Clay looks at him. "Do you really want to be someone else?" he asks quietly.

Desmond looks down at that, his lips pressing together in unhappy line. Then he folds the papers and tucks them into an inner pocket. "Right," he says. "You're not coming with me, though?"

"Don't have the physical training yet – not like you do," Clay says, looking Desmond over – even though all the layers it's obvious how fucking toned he is. "And I uh… the details weren't packaged. It wasn't important enough to waste data on it."

Desmond, to his credit, doesn't even pause at that, doesn't question it – doesn't pity him. "Okay. How do we keep contact?" he asks. "Cell phones aren't safe and we haven't got radios."

"Hence why I printed you instructions," Clay says. "Once you're in I can patch into the internal systems though – I'll keep track of you like that. Steal a radio from security and I can patch into it. But you're going to have to get in on your own."

Desmond nods slowly. "Right," he says and takes a breath. "I guess we're doing this then."

* * *

 

Clay has done the support role before – he almost remembers it, as part of the Assassin training several lifetimes ago. He'd never particularly liked it, but he'd been good enough at it – hacking into security feeds, messing up scanners and sensors, carefully directing an Assassin on the field though guard patrols.

It's a bit different now, though – to do it from computer in a dormitory without all the necessary equipment. The intel he got was good, though, and Desmond has the blueprints too, he can get around. But it's still nerve wrecking, those couple of first hours, as Desmond sneaks in without backup or oversight.

"The fuck am I even doing," Clay mutters, trembling a bit as he stares at the screen. "I'm a fucking college kid what the hell am I doing…"

Maybe he's lost his mind – fuck, it seems actually pretty damn likely, considering what's in his head. The construct definitely hadn't been fully sane, and neither had Subject 16, and goddamn he really _believes this shit_? He's obviously gone insane with stress or something – he should've called his dad that day, too, he'd completely forgot...

Then there's Desmond on the screen and things become a bit clearer – there's work to do, mission, he can't let himself slip, not with Desmond's life potentially on the line. Breathing in and out slowly, Clay leans in and concentrates on the work of deleting Desmond from footage as he passes through.

Desmond is good – almost too fast for cameras to pick up at all in the darkness of the night, just a blur as he runs through the sidewalk, up a wall, in through a window just as Clay switches off the alarm system temporarily. Then he's in and gone – Clay switches cameras just in time to see end of Desmond's coat as he disappears down the corridor.

At a security station Desmond grabs a head set and with little bit of code magic, Clay is patched in.

"Desmond," Clay says to his own home headset.

" _Am I still good_?" Desmond asks.

"You are perfect – not a blip on radar," Clay says and quickly shuffles through the feeds. "Down the left side corridor, through the doors and up the stairs – what you want is up in fourth floor."

Desmond doesn't answer – just moves out. He's silent on the headset, even his breath doesn't carry through and there's not a hint of footsteps – he's _very good_ it turns out, downright ghostlike. It's almost creepy – especially since Clay knows these movements, the way Desmond stalks forward at a slight hunch, hood over his eyes, it's all eerily familiar.

"Ezio, right?" Clay asks.

" _Yeah_ ," Desmond answers, and then he's through the door and moving up the stairs. " _They made me live his whole life, to internalise his skills. Or that's what Lucy told me – it was really to get the Apple_."

"… right," Clay murmurs and then fixes the footage again, patching in older bits, fixing the time stamp on the fly. "Stop – there's guards up ahead. Stand by and be quiet."

They wait for the guards to pass by, strolling down the corridor and then behind a bend. Desmond moves the moment Clay gives him the go ahead, ducking out of the stairwell. "Left, then right, past two doors and right. That's the room."

Thankfully the building is mostly empty but for the night watch and few night owls – there's no one there as Desmond eases in and goes for the computers there.

"Okay, just follow the instructions," Clay says into the headset. "Step by step, and once you're done, print everything out."

" _Right_ ," Desmond says and sits down to work. " _Let me know if I do something wrong_."

"I got you, just get to it."

It takes them about hour to do everything – fake copies of birth certificates, medical records, school history and so on. Complete background of a person done from scratch. Is Clay good or is he good?

" _You think this is enough_?" Desmond asks warily once he has everything important printed out.

"It'll take a bit more work, but we're getting there," Clay says. "Now, you just need to make us applications and slip them right in. With any luck… we'll get our new passports and visas delivered in few days. You'll find the forms on floor below that one – you can fake handwriting, right? Someone signed on those things and you'll need to make a signature close enough to it. And stamp it too."

" _Damn_ ," Desmond says. " _Faking signatures isn't exactly something I've practiced, I gotta tell you_."

Clay bites his lip. "Shit. Just try and make it as good as you can. Get a move on – it's almost time for a watch change."

" _Right_ ," Desmond says and grabs the papers he'd printed. " _Let's finish this_."

* * *

 

It takes five days. Five days which might've been nerve wrecking for some, except Clay's follows the progress as it happens and he knows they did they work well – no flags are raised. There's more work they do in the meanwhile – other ID's they fake orders for and get real replies to. The applications go through and with them, their backgrounds start settling in, somewhere – start becoming _real_.

What Desmond does most of those five days, Clay doesn't ask – the other Abstergo subject is more out than in, while Clay calls in sick to all his classes and fakes a very severe – but believable – case of food poisoning. Desmond checks in on him every day, sure, but he doesn't hover.

He lets Clay have his nervous breakdowns in peace – which Clay does, repeatedly, along that five day period, as the knowledge settles in – and then starts becoming a memory. And memory – memories can be fake. Can't they?

Humans don't actually remember things, in normal conditions – not as people think remembering works anyway. Every memory they remember is actually rewritten by the act of remembering it. " _A human mind is a very faulty projector_ ," Warren Vidic told him once. " _For records that get damaged every time they're slotted in for viewing – useless, wasteful process that damages the data. Only DNA preserves them, pristine and whole_."

Maybe he's imagining the whole thing. He's been sick, he's ill; he threw up for god's sake. It can't be real, right? Assassins and Templars and the end of the world – who comes up with this stuff? Insane people, that's who. There's no proof – what proof is there? Desmond isn't proof – he's just some kid. Who the hell is he even supposed to be – some sort of Chosen One? A genetic Messiah? Give him a damn break –

No, of course it's true, fuck, he _lived_ it all, he died for this shit. He didn't imagine painting the walls in blood – hell no, he _felt_ it. And the feeling of slowly bleeding to death over days, over weeks, that's not something you just fucking imagine. It is literally, _physically_ unimaginable, that slow, agonising death, it's not something you just make up. Animus Island isn't something you make up. The construct -

He's just a college kid – someone slipped him something maybe, he's just hallucinating. Clay Kaczmarek is just a engineering student with future of a shitty job he doesn't like ahead of him and pushy, overbearing father waiting for him and life of hopefully pocketing that precious 60k a year from being just the sort of builder Kaczmareks have always been –

He's, he's an _–_

"I'm an, I'm –" Clay mutters, as Desmond ushers Ted out of the dorm with a quick exchange of twenty dollars – Ted at least is enjoying this arrangement a whole lot, the asshole. Clay draws a shaky breath and looks up. "Desmond – I'm – an _Assassin_ , right? I am an Assassin."

"Yeah," Desmond says, walking up to him and putting a hand on his shoulder. "Yeah you are, Clay, and a damn good one at that. Look what just came."

He drops something onto the bed in front of Clay, and he looks down to it. A passport, visa and a driver's licence – all for Clay Adams, born March 19th, 1983. And then another similar set for Desmond Lane, born December 21st, 1985 – just enough variation on dates, birth places, names, and all the rest to properly mess up the records and make Desmond bit older while they were at it.

Desmond's hand squeezes his, gentle and reassuring and _solid_. "Time to pack up your things," he says. "We've got a flight to catch."


	3. Chapter 3

It's the Eagle Eye, Desmond thinks, as something about the security guard in the airport, the way the guy's _colours_ flash from red to green to red, makes him turn to Clay and start speaking in Italian. Something about the Eagle Eyes and the vision – the feeling of it – that makes him know how to blend in.

"Don't look now, but the guy on the left, I think he's thinking of frisking me," Desmond says to Clay in fluid, Florentine accented Italian and Clay looks at him weirdly.

"Probably don't kill him," Clay answers in the same language – in the same accent. "That would be bad."

Desmond presses his lips together not sure if he's trying to smother a grimace or a smile. Grimace would prompt more suspicion out of the guy, though, so he smiles, tilts his head a bit – something about that will work, outward sheepishness, that will do the trick…

Clay's leg is bouncing with nervous energy beside him and he's wringing his hands in his lap – that's not helping though. Any signals of ease and calm Desmond tries to put out, Clay's nervousness will undo. "What's wrong?" Desmond asks, glancing at the guard, wondering what the guy is thinking.

Suspicion, alarm, danger – they've definitely been marked down as something to be wary of. Desmond's darker skin makes them uneasy. Clay's nervousness and near panic makes them uneasy. Too many danger signals coming from them – there's another airport security guard who's spotted them now.

"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing," Clay mutters and runs a hand over his face. "I got classes, Desmond – I – I got school. The tuition's paid for the year and everything. My dad will kill me if he finds out."

Desmond turns to him and then away, still toeing the line of what body language to deploy. "You can still go back," he says. "We're not on the plane. You can go back and forget all of this and just be… normal."

Desmond really shouldn't let him, though. Clay knows too much now, not just about him but the future, the Apple, the First Civilisation. Be it William Miles and the Assassins or Warren Vidic and the Templar, they'd crack Clay's head open to get that information out of him. It's too dangerous to leave him.

Desmond would, though, if Clay decided to go back. Whatever he is and whatever he's doing, he's not in the business of… _that_.

Clay could go back, he'd even give the guy money to get a cab if he wanted to. He could go back to being normal college student. How long that would last with Clay's mind being what it is, though…

Clay leans forward and rests his head on his hand, leg bouncing, shoulders hunched. He looks like guy about to do the worst thing in his life – yeah, that's not sending good signals to the security guards. Desmond glances at them, wondering what might put them at ease, what might make them look elsewhere and ignore the two suspicious guys on a bench in the lobby…

Desmond leans forward and puts a hand on Clay's back. Clay shudders under it, his spine arching under his clothes, his ribs flexing with the deep breath he draws. "Desmond," he murmurs, and Desmond runs his hand up slowly, feeling the tension of the muscles underneath. Clay exhales and when Desmond tugs at him, he lists little towards him.

"Do you want to go back?" Desmond asks, still in Italian, while angling his body so as to turn the physical comfort into outward show of intimacy.

The guard nearby flushes red, green, and then flicker of blue enters his… aura, whatever it is.

"Fuck no," Clay says and hangs his head for a moment. Then he turns to Desmond. "What are you doing?"

Desmond smiles, and leans in, as if to press a kiss on Clay's temple. "Guards," he says in low, comforting tones, hopefully two quiet for anyone to hear if they happen to speak Italian. They are waiting a flight to Italy, after all, it's not exactly beyond realm of possibility.  "They think we're going to do something dangerous. I'm trying to… make them think something different."

Clay tenses and then shudders and leans into him. "Since when you're that sharp?" he mutters and glances around. "Ah," he says then and leans to Desmond.

Green, green – what does that colour signify? Red is aggression, suspicion, worry, alarm, things that lead people into attacking other people. Blue is calm and understanding, helpfulness, things that might make people help you – or signal that they are already willing to help you. What's green?

Disgust maybe? Their act is prompting it in more people than just the guards – but one of the people signalling in _green_ is also smiling at them, so what is it?

Clay sighs and leans into him, his head slipping down to lean against Desmond's chest, and the image is complete – two gay guys, possibly on the run, one of them doubting himself while the other is more confident, comforting each other. Better by far than couple of potential insurgents about to do something generally dangerous and stupid.

The guard shakes his head and continues on his round around the room.

"How'd you do that?" Clay murmurs against Desmond's chest, as they arrange themselves in a way that keeps them pressed together – keeps them sending these signals, rather than the other ones.

"Eagle vision," Desmond answers, wrapping an arm around Clay's shoulders. The guy is shaking a little. "You're not alright," he says. "Head ache?"

"Just – this stuff," Clay mutters. "My head, it won't integrate, I keep switching back and forth. Keep thinking I'm going nuts and I need to go back to school. Like that matters now."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'd rather have it than not – just wish it would fucking settle," Clay sighs and shifts so that he's got his feet propped up on the bench and can basically half lie on Desmond. "It'll… it'll be better once I see it. It got to be."

Desmond says nothing, shifting a little and shifting Clay so that he's leaning his head on Desmond's shoulder and not into his throat. They're definitely making people uneasy now, lot of people are sending aggression signals – but at least this time they don't think they might be danger to their lives, just their sensibilities.

"Eagle vision," Clay then repeats, shifting into more comfortable position against him. "Huh."

"Yeah, it's –" Desmond trails off. "It's different here."

"Real people – it's all nuance," Clay says and closes his eyes. "And people are naturally tuned to reading other people. Expressions, body language – we just got another layer on top. Feels a bit like telepathy, doesn't it?"

Desmond blinks and looks down at him. "You can do this too, just sort… know what people need to see?"

"How do you think I – he – stayed under radar so well while leaving his messages? Why no one suspected anything?"

"I guess I… never thought about it. I figured you just did your thing at night," Desmond murmurs.

"He did," Clay answers. "But it also helped that the crazier he acted the less attention they paid to what he was doing. In the end the sessions he had were all a mess – critical desynch, data corruption, break down of genetic chains… it was a mess. Some of it was real and the rest was acted well enough that no one looked. Not even when he started finger-painting on the floors."

Desmond tightens his arm around Clay at that, gritting his teeth. Shit, he thinks. "Maybe don't talk about that here," Desmond says after a moment.

Clay sighs and turns his head, his forehead resting on Desmond's neck. "I'm going to take a nap," he says and does just that.

Desmond bows his head and says nothing. The guard passes them by, casting them a look and then rolling his eyes and moving along, ignoring them.

In the end, neither of them is pulled aside for any random inspections.

* * *

 

The flight to Italy is both bad for Clay, and lot easier than Desmond thought it would. Clay settles in the plane a little – something about the crowded quarters seems to… not quite soothe him, but put things into perspective maybe. Or maybe he's just entering some sort of _this is a mission_ mindset that makes it easier to keep things straight in his head.

There's no panic attacks, though, no nervous bouncing, nothing. Instead Clay's wound up tight like a spring, almost vibrating with the strain of it.

Desmond, seated next to him and between him and the rest of the plane, doesn't know what to do about it though. He can see the thoughts race across Clay – it's on his face, in his aura. Fear is a wash of purple, followed by calming as he settles into knowledge and acceptance – and then there is a wash of fear again as Clay swings back and forth between acceptance and uncertainty. Part of him – larger majority really – still doesn't believe this is happening.

Whatever he got from the future, whatever memories got passed through, it's not quite enough to make his younger, surer self believe. The person who'd lived twenty one years in blissful ignorance doesn't want to believe.

As much as Desmond understands, he doesn't know what to do about it. He'd chosen his ignorance after fact and even after nine years the previous knowledge had still been there – he'd never had hard time believing, just taking it seriously. He'd never _not known_ , not like Clay had.

"When William came to you," Desmond says eventually, "Why did you join him?"

Clay looks up, tense, his pale eyes a little wild and his face tight. "Why I – why wouldn't I?" he asks. "It was _exciting_. Bigger than myself. Secrets of history and the universe and shit," he says and leans forward a little in his seat, rocking subtly back and forth. "I lived such small life, Desmond, in-fucking-significant. William promised I'd _matter_."

Clay laughs at that while Desmond makes a face. "Fucking asshole," Clay mutters and runs a hand over his face. "Why'd you run away?"

Desmond shakes his head. "You know why." Clay had been in his memories.

"I know how, I know when, I don't know _why_ ," Clay says. "Why _you_ did it? You of all people."

Him, of all people. Him, the Mentor's son. Desmond looks away, at the seat in front of him. "I looked around, at kids younger than me being trained to kill and I thought, _this is wrong_ ," Desmond says. " _This is ludicrous_."

Clay looks at him steadily, cast in stark shadows and lights by the window at his back. His face is softer here, Desmond's noticed – he's not so trained, his skin not so tight over his muscles, but it's not just that. This Clay hasn't spent so much time grimacing in pain that it has been etched to his features, that future sense of _off-putting unpleasantness_.

"It's a fucking cult, you realise," Clay says flatly. "How they run it these days – it's a cult, with indoctrination, initiation rituals and shit. They even have mantras and a _good book_ of their own, with sayings and beliefs. But it's still just another cult, these days."

Desmond looks away, down at his hands. He glances at the guy sitting left to them - he has headphones on and isn't listening. The women sitting behind them are deep in their own discussion, and the man and his kids in the seats in front of them are engaged in a _spirited family discussion_. Still, not exactly a safe place to discuss the intricacies of the modern Assassin brotherhood.

"Yeah," Desmond says instead and leans his head back. _We are Assassins, we are_ Assassins, _and this is our creed,_ he thinks. _Nothing is true; everything is permitted_. Except not following the Creed, not doing as they're told, not following the rules…

"Clay, when… when William came to you. Do you know if it was because…" Desmond trails off and looks at Clay. "People don't usually get recruited unless they're already _in the know_ or about to get themselves in trouble with it."

Shaun had been recruited because he'd started hacking Abstergo, because he'd posted leaks online. Rebecca was probably a similar deal. But Clay… Clay had been just a guy doing his thing, just working a construction job, Desmond thinks, or something like that anyway. He'd been… _normal_. He hadn't been in the know, he hadn't been about to start a revolution – there was no reason to approach him.

No reason – except his DNA.

Clay looks at him, his face expressionless, and then looks away again. "Why didn't you just turn around and go back to the Farm?" he asks then. "All those people, resources – it would work better in the long run if you stuck with them."

"Like hell," Desmond mutters and looks away, thinking of his father. William Miles, the Mentor of the Brotherhood. Desmond doesn't actually know what kind of Mentor he made, over the years. The man he'd eventually met in year 2012 had had nine years of mentorship and failures and shame of a runaway son under his belt – it had changed him, humbled him just a bit. But before that…

Before that there had been Lucy, and Clay, and Desmond himself, and he remembers all too well what his dad had been like, when he'd still lived in the Farm. Desmond would rather die than give the Apple of Eden to that man.

"Yeah," Clay agrees and Desmond turns to him. There is something in his eyes, a flicker, a glow – a shimmer of energy. "Just like that."

Desmond sighs, wondering what his aura looks like right now. "You know how Ezio ran the Brotherhood? How he rebuild it from scratch, bolstered the numbers, trained people?" he asks quietly. Clay might've not seen it in Rome, but he must've been watching Desmond reliving Ezio's life in Constantinople – he saw a very similar process there.

Clay says nothing, though, just watching him.

"It was so weird, seeing Dad's methods done so much better," Desmond mutters. "I got it all in my head now, everything he did – Ezio did. And I can see where they go wrong, these days. It's so similar, but so _off_ somehow."

"Copy of a copy of a copy. Ezio wrote the book on the Brotherhood and how it should work," Clay says. "Everyone else after him tried to rewrite it, usually making it only worse."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees and looks down. "Something about it is very wrong now."

"You're mistaking Everything for Something," Clay mutters and then reaches out his hand. Desmond looks down, as Clay's fingers inch towards his hand, his pinkie tugging on Desmond's sleeve. "That's why you didn't go back."

Clay's fingers curl into Desmond's sleeve, under the edge of the cuff, backs of his nails against the side of Desmond's wrist. "You were recruited for your genes," Desmond mutters and turns his hand around, to tap his fingers against Clay's knuckles. Clay had been a sacrificial lamb on the altar of Eden, in more ways than one. "How fucked up is that?"

Clay just grins at him, wild and only partially sane, and says nothing more. Nothing more really needs to be said.

It's a long flight, all in all.

* * *

 

They land in Rome, after what feels like half of forever. Filing out of the plane seems to take even longer than waiting for it had taken, and this time there are no overzealous security guards breathing down their necks. Here, they aren't potential terrorists acting weirdly – here, they're just tourists. Still, it's slow, and crowded and awkward and it's starting to take a toll.

"I need to find a quiet dark corner and hyperventilate in it soon," Clay mutters at him as they shuffle, bit by bit, through the crowd. "Fuck we just left US, just like that, no plan whatsoever – what the hell are we doing? What the hell is this? Desmond – what are we doing here?"

"Hopefully not fucking up – here, come on," Desmond says and drags Clay away from the crowd. They don't have much in way of luggage – just one bag of clothes and such which really they can just leave in the airport limbo forever as far as Desmond is concerned. Right now, he needs out – Clay needs out. Neither of them is made for crowds, these days.

Everything is awash with light as they step out, blindingly so. Clay lets out a little giggle and Desmond looks up to where he's looking – they'd landed on _Leonardo da Vinci International Airport_. "That's fucking hilarious," Clay says, grinning up at the sign. "Did you know that guy got tried for sodomy?"

"I don't see how that makes him unfitting to having airport named after him," Desmond says, eying the sign and then turning away. "Come on, let's get out of here."

"I'm pretty sure he and Ezio banged sometime. They got to have, what with the torch Leonardo was carrying for him. I swear it was visible from space," Clay says and follows him, more thanks to the grip Desmond has on his elbow than because he's actually trying to keep up. "There was an Apple of Eden on the fucking moon. I wonder if it could see Leonardo's torch."

Desmond shakes his head and when Clay stumbles a little he winds an arm around his back to keep him upright. "Come on, we need to find you a place to decompress."

"I'm not insane," Clay mutters. "How did Apple of Eden get on the moon anyway? I never figured that one out. What the hell was it doing there?"

"The First Civilisation had them on satellites. One of the six ways they tried to save the world. I figure when they broke apart, one of them just landed on the moon."

Clay blinks at that, and for a moment they just walk as he digests the information. Desmond manages to get him away from the airport and eventually down a beautiful sidewalk, flanked by trees – their shade is welcome. The jetlag is real – if they were still in US, they'd be dead asleep right about now, and the blinding light in face of what should be night time is nauseating.

"Fuck," Clay says, as they come across a park bench well out of view of any security cameras and Desmond ushers him to sit. Clay's been getting a bit shaky as they walked – now he's looking downright pale. "We're in Italy?" Clay asks his knees, hanging his head. "What the _fuck_."

Desmond sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes before crouching down in front of Clay. "Sorry, bit too late to go back now," he says. "Are you okay?"

"No," Clay says, looking at him and then looking around. "My dad is going to kill me. Where the hell did you get the money for this?"

Desmond shrugs. "Picked some pockets. Robbed a store," he admits and rests his elbows on his bent knees, watching Clay's face. "I'm going to do that here too, probably, to get some local currency. Whatever it is right now."

Clay blinks at him. "My dad is going to kill me," he says again.

Desmond sighs and shakes his head. "Clay," he says quietly. "The only way he's ever even going to know is if you tell him. As far as anyone knows, Clay Kaczmarek just disappeared off the face of the earth, right?"

"Shit," Clay answers and then bows his head, running his shaky hands over his pale face, up to his short blond hair. "Shit, shit, shit…"

Desmond says nothing, not really knowing what to say. From what he'd seen Clay hadn't had a particularly good or healthy relationship with his dad, but the guy had been still more of a dad than William Miles had ever been – in his own way, Harold Kaczmarek had wanted the best for his kid. He'd been controlling and demanding and belittling of Clay's own interests, borderline abusive really, but still… Clay had looked up to the guy once. Still does, here.

Clay is quiet for a moment, breathing into his palms, in and out noisy and rattling until something seems to settle and he looks up – or rather down – at Desmond. "It won't settle in – the memories, they're too artificial," he says. "It's like trying to make Nokia phone run an iPhone app from the future – it's just not fucking working."

"They're your memories," Desmond says.

"They're not – they're memories of an AI construct. Artificial similes, reconstructions," Clay says and then presses his fingers into his eyes. "Fucking Animus memories work better – they're _organic_. This isn't."

Desmond says nothing for a moment, not sure what to say, how to help. He doesn't even know how Clay had made the construct back in Animus Island – it seems a bit like miracle to him.  "Would – would having an Animus help?" he asks helplessly. Abstergo had headquarters in Italy, and Animus Project was mostly based in Italy - maybe they could…

Clay breathes in and out, in and out, slower each time. "This isn't genetic – they're… fuck," he mutters and sighs heavily. "It isn't genetic, Animus won't do shit. I need to integrate them. I need to – _install_ them properly."

"Can you?" Desmond asks dubiously.

"Fuck if I know," Clay grumbles and then looks at him. "This wasn't actually supposed to go into a _person_ ," he admits. "I – he, it – we didn't plan for it to go into a person. It's like – it's computer code. But I'm not a computer."

"Yeah, I get it," Desmond says and stands up. "I just don't know how to help. Is there anything I can do? I can get us place somehow, place where you can figure it out. Hell we can squat at the coliseum – I know way into tunnels under it, they're nice and clean. No amenities though."

Clay laughs, breathless, wheezy. "Running water is important," he says with a giggle. "We don't want dysentery now."

"No, we don't want that," Desmond mutters, looking him over. "Right," he says then and holds out a hand. "Come on. I have some money left, let's see if we can find a place to exchange it and then get a room somewhere."

Clay swallows and looks at the hand he's holding out. "Where's your tattoo?" he asks confusedly even as he takes it.

"In the future," Desmond answers, and pulls him up to his feet.

* * *

 

They get a room in a relatively cheap hotel in the end – a small one with window that doesn't show anything particularly interesting. It has clean sheets and clean bathroom and isn't popular enough to be too busy – and most importantly, it has no security cameras.

Clay is out like a light the moment Desmond gets him inside, passing out the moment his head hits the pillow. Desmond looks over him for a moment, weighing the risks in his head.

No one is after them, no one knows them Clay Adams and Desmond Lane are just travellers here, American tourists at most, weirdos from Florence at worst – so as long as they don't make trouble no one really cares about them beyond their ability to pay. They're nobodies. No one would come after them, except possibly to rob them.

He could just leave Clay at the hotel for a bit to rest and decompress while he himself went out scouting – and possibly, gathering money. They need funds, the money he has on him won't last forever. And… and he needs to figure out what to do with the Apple once he has it.

There's no hideout to run to, here. No Rebecca and Shaun to fall back on, no Lucy or William to tell him what to do, where to go. Once he has the Apple… what the fuck is he going to do then?

Sighing, Desmond sits beside Clay's sleeping form and runs hands over his hair, trying to think. His instinct says that the Apple will be safest with him – but is that really true? No one knows where it is right now, and with him out of the picture they wouldn't find out either. Not unless they got his dad in the Animus…

No, not even then. William Miles was related to Ezio too, sure, but… but if his DNA had been enough to find the Apple, William _would have found it_. The Assassins would eventually have the Animus too, after all, a better one than Abstergo did anyway. There's no way that his dad wouldn't have tried using it, what with the genes they have, the linage they always boasted about at the Farm.

 _Basically Assassin Royalty_ , they called it.

His dad must've tried it – there is no way he wouldn't have tried it. By logic, he could've found the Apple too in his own genetic memories, they were roughly the same as the ones Desmond has. Why hadn't he?

Because it wasn't William Miles Juno wanted.

For a moment Desmond lets that thought settle, running his hands up and down across his scalp, his hair, once more cut at familiar, comfortable cut. Then he looks at Clay, lying on his back spread eagle on the bed, completely dead to the world – except for the rapidly moving eyes under his lids. Clay had gone straight into REM sleep. He looks better though, in sleep. Less tightly wound, less tense – not quite as pale either.

For his sake alone they will at least have to go and have a look at the Apple. But if they take it away from the vault… then what? Keep one of the most dangerous objects in human history on them and then what? Try and smuggle it to US and hope it doesn't get caught at the gate? Unearth the Grand Temple nine years early? Or just keep running, keep moving?

If Clay doesn't get better, that sort of life would kill him quicker than Abstergo would.

"Shit," Desmond mutters and looks down to the floor. Then he gets up and after moment of hesitation, reaches for the brochures sitting on the bedside table and scrawls a quick note on them, leaving the leaflet on Clay's stomach so it would be the first thing he spotted once he woke up.

Then, quiet and careful, Desmond slips out of the room and locks the door behind him.

What they need right now is a place to stay a bit longer.

* * *

 

Clay is awake by the time Desmond returns with couple of bags of new clothes for both of them and a set of keys.

"I'm starving," Clay greets him from where he is lounging on the bed, one leg propped up, scribbling something onto the brochure.

"There's a restaurant across from here, we can go have a bite to eat there – here," Desmond says and hauls one of the bags onto Clay's bed. "New clothes. I tried to pick stuff you might like, but if you don't I can get more."

"Did you rob another store?"

"No, just a bunch of businessmen on the street," Desmond shrugs and pours the contents of his own bag onto the bed. "People carry lot more cash on them these days than they do in future." And with his new, weird way of using the Eagle… _sense_ , really, it's not really just vision anymore, pickpocketing has become almost too easy really.

Clay says nothing, adding something else to the brochure before looking up. "I thought you might've gone after the Apple. It's in Rome, right? Were you waiting for me – I'm flattered."

Desmond says nothing for a moment and then grabs a clean t-shirt from the pile of brand new clothes. "I don't… I'm not sure it's safe to go down there yet. Not before we're better prepared."

Clay frowns and then sits up, crossing his feet and leaning in. "You mean Juno," he says.

"She's all over that place," Desmond agrees darkly. "She got into my head – you saw the aftermath, the coma, the breakdown I had. If we go there and she does _that_ again…"

He looks up and Clay frowns, thoughtful, dark. "No Animus to plug us in here," he mutters. "Not unless we build one. Or steal one from Abstergo. Last time she forced you though, because of Lucy. That's what triggered the breakdown, you fighting her – it shattered your mind, trying to resist. No Lucy here, though."

" _You're_ here," Desmond says quietly and hesitates over the clothes. "I – can't risk that. Besides, we don't know how she gets into your head. What if she can read my mind and see… everything?"

Clay says nothing, watching him darkly.

"We don't have a place to keep the Apple anyway. We have _nothing_ here," Desmond says and shakes his head. "Nothing but the clothes on our back. No hideout to go to, no underground bunker to take shelter in."

Clay tilts his head. "So much for having a plan, huh?"

Desmond throws him a glare. "So let's _come up with one_ – and once we have one, _then_ we can go after the Apple and the rest," he says and then starts pulling his hoodie off – he's been wearing the same clothes for days now, and through a _flight_. They're starting to be a bit rank. "I'm taking a shower."

"Wait," Clay says and throws brochure at him. "About that plan…"

Desmond pauses and turns to look at the brochure as it flutters to the floor. Frowning, he picks it up.

It's a mini tour-guide for the most famous sites in Rome. Clay has scribbled the boarder full of annotations and notes about the places. There's also a bold, underlined scribble reading in big letters _I NEED THE FUCKING INTERNET,_ which is scrawled all over a bit of text about the Coliseum.

"You remember how lot of Rome and Constantinople was just… flat out on sale?" Clay asks. "Ezio buying historical sites left right and centre for no reason?"

"I – yeah?" Desmond says, eying the brochure. "I didn't know you knew about that – I mean, about Rome. You didn't see to Rome in your genetic memories, right?"

"Saw it when you were going through it – never mind that. Codey me looked it up, what it was based on, because it was just kind of ridiculous, some guy just buying the goddamn Coliseum," Clay says and clasps his hands together. "Turns out it's a thing. Not Ezio owning the Coliseum, though who the hell knows, he might've. But buying historical sites, it's a real thing. Italy kind of has more of them than it knows what to do with."

Desmond frowns. "I don't… see how that's relevant. I'm pretty sure we can't buy the place where the vault is – it's a major church."

Clay rolls is eyes. "No, you dumbass. Remember the Auditore Villa, what it looked like – looks like, right now?" he asks. "Big old historical mansion _completely_ run down. Fucking tragedy, seeing the place like that, after all the effort Ezio put into restoring it. No one even fixed the damn roof."

"Yeah," Desmond says slowly, uneasily. It had been… yeah. It had kind of broken his heart to see the place, after having lived through the process of restoration as he had – as _they_ had. Somehow, knowing that Clay had lived through it too – and that Clay had seen the aftermath in his memories – just makes it feel worse. "What about it."

Clay looks at him silently for a moment and then arches his eyebrows. "Place like that, the upkeep is enormous, the taxes through the roof – that's why they get so rundown, you need a good business plan to make the restoration worth it. So, they're sold at pennies lot of the time, sometimes just given away – just to get rid of the costs of owning and maintaining them."

Desmond stares at him. Clay shrugs. "I'm just saying. There's a pretty good chance the old place is on sale."


	4. Chapter 4

The trick, the trick will be reliving the memories.

Animus could help but only if it was _his_ Animus, the virtual one he – the construct – compiled inside the actual thing. Nexus points and personal history – hah. In hindsight isn't it just the darnest thing, how he'd hacked the Animus, build Animus inside Animus, folded the whole thing in on itself and made the person trapped inside – as in, Desmond – able to relive their own memories? It hadn't been perfect, the Animus core programming couldn't handle physics properly inside actually _lived_ memories, the mind itself fight it until it turned into a soup of code and basic geometry but still. Damn impressive, if he so says himself.

That version of the Animus, that would help. But he doesn't have it and fuck it if he wants it either. It might've been a prison of his own making, but that doesn't mean he liked it. God, he did love it though.

No, no – no mechanical solutions to this, even though it's technically a mechanical – no, a _code_ problem. No Animus, no chemicals, no genetic memory. This isn't genetic anyway, not… yet. And that's the problem.

The data packet construct, the _backup file_ , it isn't in his genes. It's in his raw energy – in the auras, in the blues and greens and reds, in flickers of the _Eagle Vision_. Code without construct, without hard drive – free floating data, unanchored. That's why it keeps switching on and off – there's nothing actually _running it_. It's just… there, like film of oil floating on top pool of water, refusing to mix.

He has to mix it with his own memories – mix it, until it has a purchase on the available hard drive and becomes integrated part of the system. Get it through the surface and into the whirlpool beneath it. Relive it. Remember it. _Reinstall it_ into his brain, and integrate it into his genetic structure.

Human mind is a faulty projector – the act of remembering things rewrites them.

Clay breathes in slowly and then looks up, releasing the breath even slower. It's dark, all lights turned out for the night – for a moment there's a layer of other rooms on top of it. The bed under him becomes the Animus, the bed Desmond is laying on another one – they're both Subjects again, stuck in Abstergo. Then it's another room, his bedroom where he did some abstract art on the walls. He wonders, idly, how long it took for Desmond to see. Did he really learn anything from it.

He had to make the message vague on purpose – couldn't have Abstergo decoding it, now, could he?

Desmond sleeps restlessly – has been sleeping restlessly the few times Clay has seen him sleep. What he sees, Clay doesn't know. He doubts they're actual dreams though. Whose life Desmond is living in his power-out though, Clay doesn't know. He would have to ask, later… there'd be time later.

Now, now he needs to defragment the data.

Breathing in and out slowly again Clay shifts into a lotus position – seems fitting – and then hangs his head a little. His own body, with bones and muscles, sinews and muscles, with organs that bubble away inside him, with heart that beats blood into continuous flow. All inside him, a perfect imperfect human system, still the best machine they have to work with.

There's a theory he had once, when he'd been a man before programming, on the brink of break down. Eventually, when you get deep enough into the Animus, you take in some of its encoding. Dreams become memories, as your brain gets used to projecting the ancestral DNA rather than coming up it's own narrative. Towards the end, Clay Kaczmarek had completely lost the capacity of dreaming his own dreams – it had always been someone else's memories he left.

If you could learn to control it, manage the bleeds and the recollections, the dreams turned into reality, then… then you would no longer need an Animus, would you? Just push through that final layer of your own sanity, of your own brain, and gain access to the brains that came before you. Right?

It's a theory anyway. Not particularly important right now – something to talk about with Desmond later, maybe.

Right now…

Clay closes his eyes, and breathes and breathes… and breathes…

In 2007, William Miles finds him. He never tells him how, just that he showed promise. Clay knows how, though. He'd joined a company, construction job – shitty, but it had damn good health insurance. As part of it, they had a initial health exam – and included in it was screening for potential genetic factors for diseases. That would've put Clay's DNA online.

" _You're lucky it was me who found you_ ," William told him. " _And not Abstergo_."

Yeah, Clay thinks and lets himself fall into the memory. _Lucky_.

* * *

 

"You're quiet," Desmond comments the next morning, about half an hour into the bus ride which would, after several hours, take them to Italian countryside. "Is something wrong?"

Clay looks at his hand. He's tapping his fingers one by one against the tip of his thumb, concentrating onto the feeling. Forefinger, middle finger, ring finger, little finger and back, little finger, ring finger, middle finger, forefinger. Fingers are puppets for the arm – there's no muscle there, they're all on strings, moved by the contractions of the muscles of the arm. Not thumb, though, thumb is special. It's what makes primates special.

Thumb is why the First Civilisation took them and rearranged their genes to suit their needs. The ability to grab things, hold tools – perform simple menial tasks. So handy.

"What do you dream about?" Clay asks and looks up, to Desmond beside him and then to the window on the other side. Italy is so _lush_ with life, just freaking vibrant. Trees and orchards and fields everywhere. "They're not dreams anymore, are they?"

Desmond glances around, flicker of gold in his irises – checking to see who might be close by enough to over hear, and if they are paying attention. Clay grins a little at that. So cautious. "It's Ezio mostly," Desmond admits, shifting in his seat and leaning back a little. The window casts sunlight on half of his face, leaving the other in shadow – beautiful stark contrast. "I dream his memories."

"How clear are they, the memories?" Clay asks. "Animus clear?"

Desmond doesn't answer immediately. "Clearer," he says then and leans his head back, closing his eyes, swallowing. _Too clear_ then.

"No filters outside the Animus," Clay says and looks at his hand again. Forefinger, little finger, middle finger, ring finger. "Animus fades stuff out – it's a security feature, same as the background music, the flickering. Stuff to remind you that it's not real – that's why all the colours are faded and sensations aren't really… right."

"You dream of memories too?"

"I used to," Clay answers and then stretches out his fingers. "I dream of code now."

Desmond says nothing to that, opening his eyes and looking at him. Clay looks back and then shrugs and turns his attention back to his hand. "I cut my own wrists, you know," he mutters. "I don't remember it but I know I did. Security footage – Codey me grabbed it from Abstergo's systems somehow. I cut my own wrist towards the end – severed the sinews, right here," he points at his wrist. "That's why the writing gets so damn messy towards the end. Severe the sinews and fingers stop working –"

Desmond reaches out and takes his wrist. Clay stops moving his fingers, letting them curl in on themselves as he stares at Desmond's hand instead, wrapped around his wrist – palm against the inner wrist. It's warm.

"I'm not suicidal now," Clay says flatly.

Desmond's fingers flex solidly around his wrist and then he tugs Clay's hand down, to rest it on the space between their bodies. "Are you going to be okay in Monteriggioni?" Desmond asks quietly. "I was having pretty much continuous Bleeding Effect when we got there the first time – it took days before I stopped seeing things."

Clay frowns and then shrugs. "Guess we'll see," he says. "Are you going to hold my hand all the way there?"

"If it stops you from clicking your fingernails, yes," Desmond says and looks at him. "Are you alright? You've been weird all morning. And you've not…" he makes a wobbling motion with his other hand.

"I'm integrating," Clay answers and turns to lean his shoulder onto the backrest, turning more towards Desmond. "More of insane program and less idiot college student at the steering wheel now."

"I wouldn't call student of engineering in a pretty good college an _idiot_ ," Desmond says quietly, watching him warily, searching his eyes. "And you're not insane."

"He joined William Miles, no questions asked. He was a _fucking_ idiot," Clay says flatly. "And I joined you. I'm completely batshit."

For some reason that makes Desmond huff out a little laugh – and somehow that makes Clay feel a whole lot better about the whole thing. Desmond doesn't look like a blurry image anymore – young Desmond and old Desmond no longer inhabit the same space. He's managed to convince his brain there is really only _one_ Desmond, the young Desmond. That's something.

Jesus, it's really unfair though. Desmond is sixteen, sixteen and in possession of highly trained body and somehow a stable mind despite all the crap crammed into it. It's enough to make a man jealous, really.

"I hated you so much," Clay admits and the small glimpse of smile on Desmond's perfect stupid face disappears. "You saw it, right, you heard? Juno, leading me by the nose to die for you? Fuck I hated you _so much_ and I didn't even know who the hell you were."

Desmond straightens a little at that, uncomfortable, guilty. "… I'm sorry," he says and his fingers on Clay's wrist flex and loosen.

"You're fucking perfect, how is any of this fair?" Clay mutters and grabs at Desmond's hand before he can pull away. "You got the best genes all around, and at the end of all this bullshit you're still fucking sane, while I'm… just fuck you," he mutters and leans in to rest his forehead on Desmond's shoulder. "You stupid perfect asshole."

And on top of that, Desmond is gorgeous too, he’s sixteen and already fucking gorgeous. At Desmond's age, Clay had looked like a dumpster fire. Desmond looks like he should be an actor in a teenage drama or something, he's that level of good looking even at this age. Apparently Italian and native American genes mixed in with some Middle Eastern stuff make a damn fine blend.

Desmond breathes in, tries to say something, aborts and then he's just tense and awkward. Clay sighs. "It's not your fault, but just… let me be a bit jealous for a bit," he mutters. "You got fucking everything handed to you. How is that fair?"

"I got everything handed to me so that I could die just the right way at the right time," Desmond says flatly. "Honestly I could've done with little less handed to me."

Clay laughs at that against the fabric of Desmond's jacket, the seam biting into his cheek. "We're sacrifices, you and I," Clay mutters. " _Then Noah build an altar to the Lord and, taking some of the all the clean animals and clean birds, he sacrificed burnt offerings on it_ … nothing quite like sacrificing species to extinction to appease a wrathful God, huh."  

Desmond sighs and eases his arm out of Clay's hold. Clay grimaces against his shoulder and moves to pull back when Desmond reaches out and wraps his arm around his shoulders instead, pulling him closer. "We're okay, Clay," he murmurs. "Aren't we?"

Clay laughs. Just laughs.

* * *

 

Monteriggioni is _horrible_.

Clay had seen it in Desmond's memories, of course, seen how it was in the future – all the way in the year 2012. Desmond had only ever seen it at night time, everything dark and barely lit by old street lamps and the moon overhead – faded enough to look like nothing but another memory. In daylight… good _god_.

It's a failed tourist destination, Monteriggioni. It's obvious everywhere one looks. Someone had once upon a time tried to push for it anyway – there's a faded afterimage of the _enthusiastic_ attempt here. All the advertisements and posters on display look like they were put up around the same time, and the shops look about the same – it's like one year everyone got together to make a concentrated effort… and that's about it. Since then, everything has slowly fallen into disrepair just about at the same rate.

There's trash left on the streets, trash cans full to the brim, cardboard boxes… all weather worn and looking like no one had tried to move them in months. The pavement is cracked and the flower arrangements have been left in disrepair – the trees, what few there are inside the commune, are all dying. No one's looked for them in years. Most of the display windows are dirty on the shop fronts, with advertisements that look like they've been hanging there for years, peeling off the windows as the tape holding them gives out.

There are no actual tourists there, and the tourism office – now standing in place of what used to be the tailor shop – is closed down. It's not the only one. Every other shop – most of which look like they once upon a time tried to sell cheap tourist kitsch – has a _Closed_ and _On Sale_ sign on their windows. The best-maintained buildings are residential ones – but even they haven't bothered to do much to maintain their outward appearance, at least in last few years.

The place is a mess. Somehow, they had one of the cutest little medieval communes with walls and what was basically an actual fucking castle and they hadn't managed to make it work as a tourist destination. It's fucking _pitiful_.

"It looked better in 2012," Desmond murmurs under his breath, shouldering his backpack as they wander up the main street of Monteriggioni, under the bleary scrutiny of the few interested locals who are out and about. "It was… cleaner for one."

"Hmm," Clay answers, looking at where the blacksmith shop used to be in Ezio's time – there's a hotel in its place now, with what used to be the shop front covered in rolling doors. There are boxes and trash cans covering the front – not very enticing looking. "I have a suspicion. Let's go see the villa."

They're attracting some attention – as they head for the stairs leading up to the villa grounds, people's eyes follow them. Probably actual people would too, Clay muses – just to make sure that the suspicious tourists wouldn't be any trouble, now.

"You alright?" Desmond asks as they climb up the stairs. "Any Bleeding?"

"Eh," Clay answers, glancing back to the hotel – the memory of a blacksmith embedded right into the closed grating of the rolling door. "Nothing I can't handle. You?"

"I've already gone through it here, the memories are all settled now," Desmond says, turning to look at the ring where Mario and the mercenaries had taught Ezio to fight. The pavement is cracked, grass and moss spilling through the seams.

Together they climb up to the final level of the _entirely_ too elaborate staircase and then stop.

"Ah," Desmond says.

The Auditore villa lies in ruins, much as it had in Desmond's memories of it in 2012 – but here, so do the grounds. The beautiful garden with its carefully maintained lawns and flower arrangements, they're all gone to hell, covered in weeds which are crawling all over the stonework of the pavement. And in front of the villa, there are no lights, casting beams onto the façade.

"It's not a World Heritage Site yet," Clay says. "I guess it was approved as one sometime before 2012, but not yet. The locals don't yet have that sweet UNESCO money to do any repairs here – so, it's all shit."

"Nice," Desmond says, his voice a little faint, and steps forward. "I don't get this – I didn't get it back then and I still don't. The Auditore villa was _magnificent_ , why didn't anyone retake it, rebuild it? And not just now but back then?"

Clay shrugs. "People fled, houses burned… usually, when someone takes down a commune like the Borgia did here, the victor claims the spoils – settles in, and repairs the damage they themselves did, makes it all nice and useful again. Only, the Borgia didn't bother here, they didn't want Monteriggioni – they just wasted the place, got what they wanted and left it in ruin. No one dared to try and settle in when they were around to object, and after the Borgia fell, Monteriggioni had been abandoned for good seven years…"

Desmond turns to him and Clay shrugs again. "Broken roof and seven years of seasons and rains – it's hell on structural security."

"How can you be so flippant about it?" Desmond asks quietly. "It's the _Auditore Villa_."

Clay stops at that and then rests his hands on the straps of his own backpack, looking at him. Emotionally compromised is the term, he muses. Desmond is emotionally compromised to hell and back by this place. Clay can _say_ it's heartbreaking for him – but Desmond actually feels it. He is actually _bereaved_.

Well, there might've been a reason why Clay had made the suggestion about the villa – and it might've had very little to do with himself.

"Sorry," Clay says. "I kind of figured that after all the time you spend here, you'd be over it by now."

"You haven't even been here before – how are _you_?"

"I… never had anything to _get over_ in the first place," Clay admits and looks away. "I didn't see the battle. To me, Ezio never stopped living here. Somewhere in my head, Monteriggioni is still at the height of its power."

Desmond looks at him, puzzled and confused at first and then sighing. "Yeah," he says turns to walk away, towards the villa, around it. "If you want a happy ending, it all depends on where you stop telling the story."

Clay says nothing to that, and when Desmond turns to walk around the grounds, he follows without a word. It is a pity, to see it like it is, so rundown, so abandoned. The windows are broken or barred, the walls rotting – the ceiling's broken. If anyone had ever tried to do anything for it, it doesn't show. It's really like it had been just… left to rot in ruin.

"The first night we were here," Desmond murmurs. "I just sat on the roof up there and stared at the town. It's weird – it's like… the part of me that's Ezio was so happy to see _someone_ living here now. He wasn't sure anyone would, the destruction was so bad. He thought it would become just one of those empty ruins, like all the ruins in around Rome, just… shells of empty houses, skeletons."

Desmond trails off. "But at the same time," he says quietly. "There's me, staring at the holes in the roof that no one bothered to fix in last five hundred years and… it made me so fucking sad. They just left the holes there."

Clay takes a breath and sighs. Honestly, Desmond is kind of lucky they didn't just flat out take the roof apart for building materials somewhere along the years, he muses. Those were some nice ceramic tiles up there after all – enough of them to tile three, four smaller buildings, really.

It's… actually kinda weird they hadn't.

"D'ya wanna break in?" Clay offers.

They're in the back now, staring into the courtyard. The doors are barred here, blocked with planks of wood – probably to keep kids and whatnot from getting into the broken down death-trap of a house.

"No," Desmond says and sighs and turns away. "Let's go see if that hotel down in the town has rooms."

* * *

 

The girl behind the hotel counter stares at them for a long while as Desmond asks if they have any rooms available. "I'm sorry – you want a room?" she asks.

"I'm sorry we didn't call ahead, it was a bit of a last moment decision to come here," Desmond says.

"No, that – that's okay – I um," the girl stands, hesitates and then turns around to get a reservation book or something from the desk behind her. "Yeah, we have rooms – um, do you want a single or a double, or two different rooms or –"

"Double, please," Desmond says and leans in to work out the transaction with the nervous, baffled girl.

Clay looks around them idly. Doesn't look like the place has had much in a way of customers in a long while. It's clean enough but it doesn't look like it had been cleaned recently – there's dust on the shelves of brochures and such. "Do you have internet here?" Clay asks.

"Um – uh, no, I mean, yes, but it's just for the office," the girl says, glancing between them. "We don't have internet connected to the rooms – I'm sorry."

Desmond glances at Clay, looking down to his hands – which Clay realises he's clenching. "Any place we can access internet in town?" Desmond asks then, turning to the girl.

The girl scratches at her neck nervously. "There used to be a public computer in the tourism office, but it's not running anymore – um. I think I can let you use the office computer a bit, but I might have to ask payment – I need to ask the manager."

Well that's just great isn't it, Clay thinks. Fucking early 2000s.

"Please ask," Desmond says. "The room?"

"Right, um, how long will you be staying?" the girl asks.

"Let's… go with a week, for now, we can extend it afterwards, right?" Desmond asks.

"Y-yeah, sure. Let me just write that down. I mean, if we get other bookings we might have to shift you around, but – I think I can promise you can extend your stay as long as you'd like…"

While Desmond gets the keys, Clay yanks a faded printout about the Auditore villa from the shelf and once the girl turns to show them to their room, he flips it open. There's not much information about the Villa there – pictures, some dates, a  bit of text about the Borgia Assault… nothing much about the actual family who inhabited the place.

Nothing about the tunnels under the mansion. Or about the Auditore Crypt, hidden in the damn well.

"I really hope you enjoy your stay here – and if there's anything at all you need, please don't hesitate to ask," the girl from the receptionist desk tells them at the door of their room and Clay looks up.

It's a quaint little room, rustic with walls of bare stone and actual fireplace and everything. It also has a single bed – a king sized double bed.

Clay gives Desmond a look and gets back a shrug. Okay then. Clay shrugs off his backpack and then goes to throw himself onto the bed, to read through the dumb and utterly uninformative little printout.

"Thank you," Desmond says to the receptionist, who nods, looks between them and then awkwardly backs away from the room. Desmond closes the door after her, locking it automatically.

"Nothing here about the cost of the villa or if it even is on sale, or anything," Clay says, turning the leaflet around. "But I guess they wouldn't put info like that on tourist brochures."

"Hmm," Desmond agrees and drops his backpack by the door, stretching his arms. "I guess we should go around asking maybe," he says. "They got to have it up somewhere."

"And tell these people what, we're two broke runaways thinking of buying a Villa in Italian countryside?" Clay asks amusedly.

"It sounds just so romantic when you say it like that," Desmond says with a shake of his head. "I don't know, I'll tell them we’re students doing research on old architecture or something. Are you coming?"

Clay considers it. "Only if we get something to eat while at it. I'm hungry."

"Deal. Let's go."

* * *

 

They end up spending the rest of the day wandering around Monteriggioni, eating some stale muffins they bought from a bakery that now sits where the art shop used to be, five hundred years ago. As they walk, Desmond leafs through the papers they got printed concerning the Auditore Villa – luckily for them, Monteriggioni has a small public library and in there they found all key info on the Villa.

"The estate's been valued several times, huh," Desmond mutters around the bit of the muffin. "They've been trying to sell it for years, or lease it to someone for free under contracts… hmm. The estate is valued at around two million euros currently. One million point nine hundred and fifty thousand. The villa and the surrounding gardens included."

"That'll take a lot of pickpocketing," Clay says, giving his muffin a suspicious look. It has whipped cream on top and he's not sure what the grey spots in it are, melted sprinkles or mold.

"They tried to sell it to some industrialist at the price of… one million lira about ten years ago? But the sale never went through," Desmond continues and turns a page. "Ah. Okay. Apparently, nothing short of, uh… seventeen _billion lira_ would be enough to renovate the villa to actual usable conditions?"

Clay blinks at that and turns to him. "That's even _more_ pickpocketing," he says flatly. "How much is that in euros?"

"I have no idea. There's a newer evaluation they did last year, uh – nine million euros, at the minimum," Desmond says and stares at the papers for a long time, reading through the evaluation report. "Yeah, no plumbing, running water, no electricity, the floors are all rotted, the roof is what it is… nine million is a _really low_ estimation, all told."

"Shit," Clay says faintly and together they look up to where the Auditore villa is peeking out, past the balusters of the stupidly elaborate staircases. "So much for it being on sale for practically for nothing, huh."

"Nine million at the minimum, plus upkeep, plus taxes…" Desmond murmurs. "Hmm…"

"Plus the unholy hassle of getting residency visas and all that shit," Clay says bites into the suspicious muffin and hums. He looks at Desmond who is frowning at the papers. "It was nice to visit the old place anyway."

"Hmm," Desmond answers.

Clay narrows his eyes. "We don't have nine million euros, Desmond," he says flatly. "We don't even have _one_ million. We barely have any money at all!"

"Hmm," Desmond answers again and continues to walk on.

"Desmond, we don't have nine million, do we? Desmond, come on, we _don't_ , do we?"

* * *

 

Desmond is still leafing through the papers on Auditore Villa when they head back to the hotel, and Clay is practically vibrating with anxious energy – and he still won't say. They don't have the money – they really don't, it's just a flat fucking fact. There's a reason Desmond pickpockets poor passersby in crowded areas and that reason is the fact that they don't have money otherwise.

"Please don't tell me you're planning a bank heist, because I gotta tell you, using the money after you steal it is the hardest thing to do," Clay says. "Unless you want to, you know, get caught."

"I'm not planning a bank heist," Desmond says, spreading the papers out onto the bed and considering them. "They've thought about turning the Villa into a hotel, you know. It has enough square feet to make it a pretty damn good one. Or a spa – there's been talks about turning it into a museum too."

"None of which they did because the revenue would've never been enough to cover the costs, I'm betting," Clay says, sitting on the edge of the bed with his feet crossed. "You're thinking of something, it's making me want to break your head open. _Tell me_."

Desmond huffs out a breath at that, not quite a laugh, and shakes his head. Finally, he starts gathering the papers up, easing them into a pile and setting them aside with a stretch. "When we were on Animus Island, we could go through our own memories, right?" he says and leans in to lie on the bed on his stomach, pulling a pillow under his cheek and wrapping his arms around it. "Do you think there is there a way to do that here?"

Clay blinks and looks at him. "You want to… well," he says and frowns. "With Animus, maybe. But the way we did it back on the Island, that was because the stuff _I_ did there, the way I changed the place – the Animus isn't really designed for it. That's why it was all messed up. But, in case you missed it… we don't have an Animus here."

"Hmm," Desmond answers and closes his eyes. "Probably a good thing."

"Also if you want to recall memories from, you know, the future? Those are all in your head – not in your genes. That body hasn't lived through them, you know," Clay says, giving Desmond a once over. "I'm assuming you want to recall something from future, right?"

"Mmmhm," Desmond agrees without opening his eyes, talking almost into the pillow. "With bit more detail than I do otherwise. In Animus, memories are always so clear. I never remember stuff that clearly on my own."

"Animus fills in the blanks, a lot of the time, it's like image reconstruction," Clay says and looks at him curiously. "What do you want to recall? Stuff about the Villa?"

"Nah, about my workplace," Desmond says, nuzzling his cheek into his pillow and drawing a deep breath. "Stuff about… Bad Weather…"

"… _why_?" Clay asks dubiously. What the hell does he want to do – start mixing drinks? Surely the guy already knows how to do that well enough – not much there to memorize, is there? "Mixing drinks is definitely not going to get us nine million, Desmond."

Desmond lets the air escape his lungs in a drawn-out sigh, and doesn't answer. Clay watches him for a moment as his body falls completely lax and then gets up from the bed, going for his own backpack, getting from it the laptop he'd gotten with that pickpocket money Desmond is so good at accumulating – but which will never get them millions.

Still, Desmond has _something_ in his mind now. Might as well humour him.

It's a shitty old thing, the laptop – brand new by 2003's standards, of course, which still doesn't make even half as good as future smartphones. Still, computer is a computer, and all he needs is something to write and code with.

While Desmond falls from shallow sleep right into memory-recalling REM sleep, Clay starts typing out options, opinions and just a lot of general theory for Desmond to pick and choose from.

There had been a _lot_ of experiments with memory recollection and recovery Abstergo had done before Animus had become a thing. Drugs, hypnosis, lucid dreaming, and so on. All of that is still present in the Animus too – or at least the one Abstergo uses. Drugs to ease person into state of artificial lucid dreaming while the headset induces a sort of hypnosis, condensing the user's reality into the hud and then the Animus guides the user into the genetic memory…

They figured out how to do it better later on – heavier machinery, better drugs and so on. The Assassins had even figured out a way to bypass the hypnosis entirely – Rebecca's _Baby_ went for manipulating electric signals of the brain instead. It was fun stuff, all around.

Take away the genetic memory aspect of the process and maybe…

* * *

 

It's the weirdest damn paper he's ever written. He can't even recall what class it's for – programming or psychology? He isn't even taking physiology class and here he is, writing about hypnosis and shit. Fuck, had he taken too much Adderall again?

Rubbing at his stinging eyes, Clay paints the text to check the word count and sighs. Over seven thousand words, that… yeah, should be enough. Probably. How much was the essay supposed to be though – and what the fuck was the subject matter anyway? He can't recall now. He probably has to cut some chunks out to condense the stuff so that whoever teacher is gonna have to read it actually can manage it. If he gets another markdown for "Being too repetitive and wordy" he's going to throw his computer out of the window.

Shit, what class was this for anyway?

Clay looks away from the screen and then blinks confusedly at the dark room around him. In the light shed by the laptop screen he can just barely see the bedside table and the lamp there. Groaning at the stretch of his stiff neck, he reaches over to turn the lamp off, a bit confused about the placement – though it wouldn't be the first time he decided to arrange everything in an Adderall induced homework haze –

"What the fuck," Clay mutters confusedly. There's some guy lying next to him, hugging a pillow. And Clay is most definitely not in his dorm. "Where the fuck am I?"

He spends about five minutes in confused haze, staring at the sleeping guy next to him, before things start making sense again. He's not in his dorm – he's in Monteriggioni in god damn _Italy_. The sleeping guy is Desmond. And he wasn't writing a fucking essay.

"For fuck's sake," Clay mutters and runs a hand over his eyes. He can't even remember at what point he'd lost track of things, just that somewhere along the way he slipped backwards and into the head of the younger Clay – going from churning out options into churning out another piece of homework. Right – associations. Writing on computer meant homework to his current brain – not _work_ work. Jesus fucking Christ his brain is stupid right now.

Shaking his head Clay lets out a weary little giggle at his own stupid brain and then, warily, looks up at what he actually wrote.

Complete fucking nonsense, towards the end – going from _blocking out distracting signals, hypnosis lets you get at the nitty-gritty of the memories_ to explaining that _hypnotherapy is a form of alternative medicine often used to break bad habits…_

"… mh?" Desmond hums beside him and opens one eye. "Sixteen?" he mumbles.

"Seventeen," Clay answers, giggling at the writing. "I have written you a fucking essay."

Desmond stares at him with one visible eye for a moment and then turns around to lie on his side. "That's nice?" he offers. "What's it about?"

"Hypnotherapy and psychedelics," Clay says. "And also little bit about the history of the Animus. I was, uh. Trying to figure out how to do the thing you asked and then I lost track I think, so it turned into speculative theorising about hypnotism. "

Desmond blinks blearily at him and then yawns, smashing his face against the pillow. "Mmmh," he says and closes his eyes again. "I had a dream I was a pirate," he says. "Do you know if any of my ancestors were pirates?"

Clay looks at him. "If you had a dream about it, then you can pretty much take it for a fact," he says. "Congrats, you have pirate in the family."

"Thanks," Desmond mumbles. "What did I ask you that made you write an essay? I forgot."

"How to recall your own memories," Clay answers. "Which, not being technically genetic, is tricky, but… might be doable. If we build like… half of an Animus."

Desmond says nothing for a moment, digesting that. Then he lifts his head. "Half of an Animus?" he asks then, confused. "What?"

"Basically what we need is the hud and the drugs and little bit of the original hypnosis programming, which I should be able to manage," Clay says and looks at him. "I could probably throw together some kind of headset if I had the materials. Actually, even a computer screen might be enough for a hud, if we rig it to hover over your face. Very retro. Uh… yeah I think I just need the drugs, really, and time to write the program."

It could probably help Clay too, if he got it to work right. It'd be no Animus, but it might be enough for him to speed up the memory integration process. Meditation works, but it's just so damn slow. Little bit of technological help could be useful.

"Okay," Desmond says slowly. "And then what?"

"Then you tell me what you're after and I'll try and jury rig you a half-assed Animus," Clay says and looks at him. "What are you actually trying to remember? And how is that going to get us nine million?"

"I don't know about nine million precisely," Desmond says and looks up. "But Bad Weather had a lot of businessmen and bankers and stuff for regular patrons. Guess what they talk about a lot when they get drunk?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for pseudo-underage-drinking and one homophobic asshole

****It's obvious that the hotel they're staying in hasn't had any customers in a long while – especially ones that stayed for longer than maybe one night before moving on. Once the manager and owner of the place figures out that, yes, they're staying for a bit and can pay for it too, she goes out her way to accommodate them – even going as far as getting them a nice and long Ethernet cable so that Clay can have internet in their room.

"It's not what we usually do but times are changing," the manager, Nora, tells them. "I suppose eventually we will have to have internet installed in all the rooms here. For now, I hope the cable will do."

"Well, it's not dial-up," is Clay's way of saying thanks, before he loses himself completely in it, doing research, hacking, whatever it is he does in preparation for their little upcoming project. Desmond leaves him to it – Clay knows what he's doing far better than he does. Usually, anyway – though the slips are getting fewer as time goes along, they still happen.

Not that Desmond can really blame him. He thought he was over Bleeding for Monteriggioni and the Auditore villa, but nope, it's all still there. Ezio, still remembering.

From 1477 to 1500, it had been Ezio's home. In those years he'd settled, he'd rebuild, he'd grown up from a confused youth into world-weary confident man, and then he'd lost it all in gunfire and slaughter. Over twenty years of memories, of which Desmond had seen only very little in the Animus. The boring days, the normal days, they all got glossed over, after all, skipped as unimportant.

Things like celebrations, carnivals held in the commune. Things like Ezio's own birthday parties, how he crawled his way through the commune from one offered drink to another, enjoying every moment. The many lovers he'd gone through. He'd known every house, every street, like the back of his hand towards the end. He'd been there, renovating most of it.

What in Animus happened in a blink, took weeks and days in real life. Fixing the church, repairing the garrison, renovating the brothel – it had all taken weeks, sometimes months of work. And usually Ezio, being the one who paid the bills, was right there, in thick of things.

The brothel is a residential building now – sectioned into several apartments, housing several families. Walking past it, Desmond can see the scaffolding they pitched up over five hundred years ago, can see the courtesans bundling up their skirts and hauling logs with the best of them. They'd had one hell of a party once the place had been officially opened – Ezio hadn't made it out from the place for a couple of days.

Bleeding Effect feels different now, though. Maybe it's the fact that he's gone through Ezio's sync nexus and Ezio has nothing _life changing_ left to show him, but these every-day memories feel sweeter than the Bleeds of before had. There's little of the disorienting confusion, and never once does his brain think it's really happening. It's more like… like watching a TV show. Except it's happening in reality, right in front of him, and only he can see it.

It might be his own interest in renovating the Auditore Villa – probably is actually – but a lot of the memories he sees playing out are about the repair and restoration work Ezio had done for Monteriggioni – and for the Villa itself, too. The Villa had been pretty run down too when Ezio had arrived, with broken and shuttered windows, and barely maintained grounds. Mario hadn't had the money or the patience to bother, not while he had wars to fight.

To him, Monteriggioni had been just the place he'd always lived in. It hadn't been a safe haven. He didn't know what it felt like to _lose_ the place you'd lived all your life in. Ezio did – it made him desperate. That's probably why the rebuilding mechanics had wormed their way into the Animus even though they had little to do with reliving the important bits of Ezio's life – they _mattered_ to Ezio, the restoration work mattered. More and more the older he grew, really.

Maybe it had been a way to pay back for all the death and destruction he wrought, but in many ways, Ezio Auditore had been all about leaving the world a little better for the future, Desmond thinks. He rebuilt Monteriggioni and he invested liberally in businesses in Rome, repairing what old monuments he could, just to preserve them. He'd even tried to fix the damn aqueducts, just because… because to leave them in ruin seemed like a crime. And he'd continued on that streak wherever he went, from Constantinople onward.

And he got rich for it. It had basically been protection racket at points, sure, people paid him dividends later on and got the protection of the Assassin Brotherhood in return, but before that there was rebuilding. Ezio never bothered with established shops – no, he went for the rundown abandoned ones, and rebuild them and found them new managers. After all, what's the point in only perpetuating what's already there when you could _add_ to it instead?

Pity that that wasn't the ideology Ezio passed onto the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood of today doesn't add much to the world anymore – if anything, they take away from it.

"You know, with nine million or however much we will eventually have, _if_ we will ever have anything at all… it could do a lot more than just renovate one little villa," Clay tells him. "The Brotherhood now is always on a shoestring budget, you know. Not much income in Assassination for Common Good. Imagine the shit the Assassin Brotherhood could do with that kind of funds?"

Desmond can imagine it, pretty clearly. It looks like a lot of nothing that affects anything, really.

* * *

 

Monteriggioni gets used to them pretty fast. They're still a novelty and people stare whenever they're out and about. But no one seems to mind them terribly. While Clay loses himself in the programming – "It's a bit complicated, Desmond, writing a whole programming language out of nothing, so if you'll excuse me, I'll be zoning out for the next unforeseeable future –" Desmond gets to know some of the people.

There's the staff of the hotel – which is just owner Nora Episcopo and her daughter Fabia. The hotel had originally belonged to Nora's father before he'd died of heart failure four years back – and according to Fabia, it had never been particularly popular.

"I mean, what's the point of coming here, when Florence is right there, you know?" Fabia says. "There's nothing here but the old villa which is going to fall over any day now and a bunch of old walls. Even the church is lame. At most, we'll get a backpacker like you guys, but they're usually gone by morning."

Desmond also gets to know the lone librarian of Monteriggioni. The library is built into what used to be the barracks – taking a small section of it – and the librarian both runs it and also more or less owns it. She owns the whole barracks building, which houses a couple of offices, only one of which is in use, and two apartments.

"We don't have much in way of books – there's not much space for them here," the librarian, Rosaria Alinari, tells Desmond while showing him around the shelves packed tight into the small library. "But we keep records of the commune here, and if you have anything you want to look up about the area or the old Villa, this is the place."

There's also selections of newspapers and even a framed article from what is the _oldest_ newspaper mention of Monteriggioni ever printed – someone had done a piece about the preservation of old communes in a Florentine newspaper, and there had been a mention of Monteriggioni in it. It's quietly mind-boggling to read the thing – two hundred years the locals had been trying to rebuild the commune. For two hundred years, they'd made only little process.

"There are quite a few places like Monteriggioni, and Monteriggioni isn't that significant, history or location wise. We're just not in a good place tourism, too far out anyone's way, really," Rosaria explains when he comments on it. "And we're not badly off to warrant pity. There are places that need funds and grants more, while we here in Monteriggioni can just barely manage. So… that's what we do. We manage."

Rosaria the Librarian is also the assessor to the history of the Monteriggioni Commune, so she knows just about everything that had been done in hopes of boosting the local economy and living. She knows exactly how many times they had tried to sell the Auditore Villa. She knows how unlikely it will be that anyone will ever buy it.

"It's the flooring that's the largest issue," she explains, taking out a big sheath of blueprints on the villa. "Roof, walls, all that you can do relatively easily, but the _floors_. They're marble, absolutely beautiful and priceless – and in order to do anything really concrete to the villa, it would have to be taken apart. Eight hundred year old marble. No matter how carefully you'd do it, and how you go about rebuilding it after, the floors alone would take a million, million and a half out of the restoration budget. And that's before you add piping and wiring into the mix."

"Ah," Desmond says, peering at the blueprints. "On all the storeys? The third storey flooring is wooden, though, isn't it?"

"And rotten. Wherever the marble isn't completely broken, it's cracked and there's water damage," Rosaria says sadly. "And the walls are what they are – some of them can be restored but others will have to be rebuilt entirely. For that alone, a lot of the flooring will have to be removed…"

The nine million estimate for the restoration budget doesn't come from nowhere, it turns out. At this point it almost looks like it would be cheaper – and easier – just to take the mansion apart and rebuild it from the ground up. But of course, that's not possible.

It's so weird, to be thinking about the renovations in modern times, when he can remember them from the Renaissance. Granted, the villa hadn't been so badly off back then, but still… Desmond can remember some of it. The walls, the windows, finally repairing the third floor, the tower on top… all of it had been a lot of work.

"Are you an architectural student?" Rosaria asks while taking out a folder of the renovation estimations – with pictures and annotations by the firm that had done the evaluation. "You're very keen."

"I'm just interested," Desmond admits. "What's the word on foreigners buying estates like the villa in Italy? If say, an American decided they wanted to own a villa like that and they had the money to renovate it, how would that work? Would buying it even be a possibility?"

Rosaria looks at him and then leans back in her chair. "Well, that," she says. "That depends on the buyer, I suppose."

* * *

 

"It's possible," Desmond says later to Clay, who is all but elbow deep into his computer. "But would probably involve contracts. And the usual stuff of background checks and credit checks and all that."

Clay hums, typing away without looking up. "Well, you don't have the money for it anyway. Might never have."

Desmond lays down on the bed beside him and sighs. "It's stupid, isn't it?" he asks quietly. "It's stupidly expensive and it'll take so much work and it's not even that terribly useful in the long run to have it – it's just a villa. With that much money, we could get a house anywhere. Several houses. We could do anything."

"We could build a castle out of cotton candy and live up in the sky, mmhmm – but it wouldn't be this specific Villa," Clay says and shrugs. "And you want this specific Villa."

"… yeah, I do. So badly," Desmond agrees with a sigh and turns to lie on his side, facing him. "For no other reason than because it's the Auditore Villa. It's so dumb."

"Historically speaking, there are worse things than being a bit dumb and wasting money, especially if it's money you wouldn't otherwise even bother to make. But yeah, it's dumb, it's very dumb," Clay says and looks at him. "I need an EEG machine."

"Okay," Desmond says and leans his cheek on his bicep. "Where will we get an EEG machine?"

"We could buy one for few hundred to few thousands," Clay says. "And thus leave a lovely trail of pretty weird paperwork. Or you could steal me one from a hospital. Steal me some meds while you're at it."

"Hmm," Desmond answers. "Seems a bit rude – and I don't like the idea of stealing from a hospital, not when it might put someone's life at risk. And that would leave a weird trail too, you know."

"Not if we're careful about it," Clay says and drums his fingers against the laptop's edge. "How about a private clinic, would you steal from a private clinic?"

"Not happily," Desmond says. "Do you need the whole thing or just parts of it?"

Clay frowns a little, thinking about it. "Just the sensors mostly," he admits then "Though having the whole thing would help, I can do with just the sensors.

"Okay – can you find a hospital that's replaced their EEG machine recently. Maybe they have a broken one we can steal without risking anybody's life and health," Desmond says and then watches silently as Clay turns to the computer again, working madly at the keyboard. "Are you alright?" he asks then. "You haven't left the hotel in a couple of days."

"Funnily enough, I can handle being indoors for a bit," Clay says tightly. "I've been cooped up in worse places than in a hotel room, you realise."

Desmond says nothing for a moment, watching him. Then he sits up. "You don't have to be cooped up anywhere anymore," he says and before Clay can object, he closes the laptop for him. Clay blinks at it weirdly and then looks up at him with betrayal. Desmond sighs. "Come on – we're going out."

"I'm working, Desmond," Clay says slowly, staring at him like he's never seen him before.

"We have time – you can work a bit later," Desmond answers and holds out his hand. "Come on – you're starting to look a little crazy around the eyes. You need a break."

"Yeah it's not like there's the fate of the world on the line or anything," Clay says cuttingly, looking at his hand like he's expecting it to attack him. He looks at the laptop again. "The faster I finish this, the faster… it will be finished. And faster is better."

"We have nine years, Clay," Desmond says. "And we're not doing this at the cost of our lives again. Come on. Let's go get a drink."

Clay breathes, holds it in, looks like he's about to argue – and then he launches himself up from the bed, grabbing Desmond's hand by the wrist and squeezing a bit too tight. "Yeah – yeah, fuck –" he says. "Let's get a fucking drink."

* * *

 

There's a quaint restaurant in Monteriggioni with an open balcony that overlooks the communal garden, which serves simple home cooking and bakes its own bread. It's cute, one of the better-maintained establishment in the commune, Desmond's found, and the most popular too. Most of its customers are locals, of course, who come there to drink and watch whatever sport happens to be on the TV at the time, but it still serves food too.

It's not the first time Clay and Desmond have eaten there – but it is the first time they've gone there with the specific intention of getting drunk.

"Fuck I can't even remember the last time I had a beer," Clay mutters, as they find their way to the balcony, to the furthest edge of it, where they might sit out of everyone else's earshot. "I tried, you know, at the Island? But it was never right. And didn't get me drunk, which sucked."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees. Even when Ezio got drunk – and he got drunk a lot – it didn't feel like getting drunk to Desmond. The Animus couldn't really simulate intoxication right, just a hollow echo of it.

"Birra Moretti," Clay mutters, eying the glass. "It's strong."

"Bit stronger than normal – I think it's like seven percent or something?" Desmond says. It had been Rebecca's beer of choice – Shaun on other hand had drunk Ghisa. Desmond had drunk whatever was on hand – Gin, whenever anyone made an early enough grocery run to get some. But alas, as a supposed eighteen year old, that's a bit beyond him right now.

Hell, he's not even eighteen years old, no matter what his ID says. He keeps forgetting it, but his body is sixteen. "This is the first glass of beer I've ever had," Desmond realises.

"Shit, really?" Clay says. "You didn't sneak away moonshine at the Farm? I'm disappointed."

"No alcohol whatsoever on the Farm," Desmond admits, and takes a drink of the beer. "The adults were really strict about it, too – there was one time when one of the older kids, I don't remember his name, but he was seventeen? He got a whiskey bottle somewhere. They almost whipped him for it."

"Nice," Clay says flatly. "Such happy family life, life at the Farm."

"Drunkenness, teenagers, parkour, and blades," Desmond muses. "Not a good combination I guess."

Clay hisses out a laugh at that and takes a drink, looking to the doorway. It's getting darker outside and the light screening from indoors is golden and warm, with the chatter of people inside sounding over the droning of the television. It looks inviting, Desmond muses – though it's not so bad outside. Bit chilly – it's still March – but it's not so bad. There's flower arrangements hanging from the balusters around them, and on every table outside there is a candle.

"To be normal," Clay says vaguely. "Wouldn't that be something."

Desmond doesn't answer immediately, leaning his chin to his palm as they watch the people inside cheer at something they see on the television. It looks cozy, homely.

"Why not," he says finally. "Why can't we have that? Just be normal for a bit."

"Yeah because what we're doing is _very_ normal," Clay snorts, giving him a look. "We're down right average, everyday Joes, you and me. Nothing a bit unusual about us."

"Think about it this way," Desmond says and turns to him, waving the beer glass at him. "We're two students backpacking in Europe, winging things as they go. That's pretty normal, isn't it?"

"Well," Clay says slowly, making a face. "Aside from the how and the why and the very strange _when_ …"

"But essentially, just backpacking tourists. That's normal as hell," Desmond says and shrugs. "At least, from what I know. I've never got to try it before. I gotta say, I'm kind of enjoying it. Being here, without having to hide."

Clay watches him, wry smile on his lips and then shakes his head. "It won't last," he says fatalistically.

Desmond sighs and lowers the beer glass onto the coaster, turning his eyes away and leaning his chin to his palm again. It's slowly turning towards evening now – sun has already set behind the walls. It's weirdly soothing thought, being behind walls. Might be left over from Ezio, but to be behind actual castle walls… it's safest Desmond has ever felt out in the open.

"I don't want to run and hide again. It's not how I want to live my life," Desmond mutters into his fingers. "Why is that so damn much to ask?"

"Because the past fucked us over," Clay shrugs and leans his elbows onto the table between them. "As it always does. And now future does too, and we're caught in the middle, fucked at all sides."

"Nice," Desmond sighs and closes his eyes, enjoying the cool breeze on his face. Then he looks at Clay. "You're in a shitty mood."

"I was working and then you dragged me out for a drink," Clay mutters and flicks a fingernail at the beer glass. Then he sighs and hangs his head, running a palm over his neck. "Sorry, I – working on the code makes me switch around a lot. It's starting to fuck up my calm."

"You have a _calm_?" Desmond asks and smiles a little at the glare Clay throws him. "Sounds to me like you really did need a break."

"Yeah, fuck you for being right," Clay mutters and grabs his beer and takes a big gulp. "Shit," he mutters and lets out a burp. "This beer is shitty."

"It's fine, you're just not used to it yet," Desmond says. "Give it a few days and it'll taste fine."

"Talking from experience."

"Mmhm," Desmond agrees. "It was a way to forget, way to… reset. On Saturdays we had a night off and then we got drunk. Correction, they drunk, I got absolutely _plastered_ and everyone else kept me from climbing up the walls."

Clay snorts. "Somehow I find that hard to imagine," he mutters. "You, getting shitfaced."

"I worked at a bar, Clay. Trust me. I know how to get myself properly drunk," Desmond says and takes a drink.

"You're always so freaking chill, though," Clay says, giving him a look. "Like – fuck, when you found out about Lucy? Got barely a fucking reaction. Pissed me off so much – you just sort of… " he makes a downward hand motion and scoffs. "Wasn't anything. Imagining you getting drunk it's like – you drink and drink but you're just sitting there and nothing shows. Most strait-laced drunk ever, that's you, I bet."

Desmond shakes his head at that, amused. "Nope," he says and looks him over. "How about you?"

"What, do I get shitfaced?" Clay asks and then frowns. "No," he says. "Not if I can avoid it. I don't really…" he gives the beer a look. "I mean I _have_ but I don't really enjoy it – and I feel so shitty afterwards that I can't stand it, every fucking time. Not worth it."

Desmond frowns a little. Weird – he imagined Clay as a guy who would have easy time partying. "Huh," he says, lifting the beer glass to his lips. "Even before, you know… William?"

Clay says nothing for a moment, flicking his fingers against the beer glass, one at the time. Forefinger, middle finger, ring finger, little finger, and back again. "My dad's an alcoholic," he says then, and shrugs.

Desmond lowers the glass slowly.

"Oh, fuck off," Clay says to him, shifting on his seat. "I'm not like traumatized or anything, I just… in moderation, you know? I don't like blacking out, freaks me the fuck out every time."

"Yeah," Desmond says. "I get it."

Clay blows out a frustrated breath and looks away. "Sorry, didn't mean to ruin your fun night out."

Desmond tilts his head, watching him, watching the uneasy tension around his shoulder, the way he presses his lips together. "Do you want to get out of here?" he offers.

"No, I want something to eat," Clay says and looks away. "Do you think they serve like fries or something here, shit you can snack on?"

"I can ask," Desmond says and after a moment of hesitation, goes to do just that, heading up to the counter. He's a bit surprised to find himself a bit woozy – he's just half quarter of a glass so far, but it's already getting to him.

Sixteen year old alcohol tolerance, wonderful. Well, it would save him on beer anyway.

"You're the gays staying at Nora's place, right?" one of the other patrons of the restaurant asks as Desmond leans to the counter and tries to catch the bartender's eye. All the guys around the man go silent.

Desmond turns to the guy and looks him over. It takes couple of blinks to get the eagle eye going – yeah lot of red in the guy. Not so much on his friends though – they're already bleeding to purple of fear and unease.

Desmond blinks and then turns to the nervous looking bartender. "You got any finger food or something?" he asks.

"Don't get him any – god only knows where his fingers have been," the red guy says.

The bartender clears his throat. "We got some pizza slices," he offers. "And some focaccia, if you'd like?"

"That sounds great, thanks," Desmond says and goes to get his wallet, while the bartender glances at the angry guy and then heads to the back.

"So when are you faggots going to leave?"

Desmond sighs and shakes his head, taking out a twenty euro bill, leaning his elbow onto the counter. Don't engage, he thinks. Nothing he can do or say won't make a difference, and if he actually engages it will only get worse. Don't say anything.

"I'm talking to you, you fucking faggot," the red guy says and stands up. "You sucked so much cock your voice doesn't work?"

"Mario, _don't_ ," one of the other guys says and Desmond looks up, frowning. "Come on, he's just a kid. Leave it."

"I'm not going to just – they're doing all sort of shit in Nora's place, I bet," the angry guy says and points a finger at Desmond's face. "We don't want people like you here, you fucking – man-slut!"

"Come on, Mario, _leave it_ ," the other guys say, reaching for his wrists and he shakes them off.

He just had to be named Mario, did he?

"Here," the bartender says, snapping down a plate of square slices of pizza slices and focaccia bread down on the counter. "On the house, hope you enjoy it –"

"Don't you fucking give him free crap –" Mario the bigot says and then goes to knock the plate off Desmond's hand. "Fucking – doesn't deserve that shit –"

Desmond swings the plate out of reach and then steps aside as the drunken man overreaches and almost falls over himself. Desmond eyes him, Eagle Eyes burning as he glances downward. The man's foot is in an awkward position, angled off. The man grabs at the counter for balance awkwardly, and very casually Desmond swings the plate forward again. The drunk flinches, his foot slips, and then he spills onto the floor, falling on his ass and banging the back of his head on the counter.

Desmond turns around walks away while the drunkard's friends burst out laughing.

"Problem?" Clay asks as Desmond eases back to sit across him.

"Nah," Desmond says. "People being people."

"Hmm," Clay answers and looks inside, where the drunk is scrambling to get back on his feet. "They're all so little, these people. Small minded assholes."

"Not all of them," Desmond says and takes a slice of cold pizza, biting into it and leaning his chin on his palm. "It's just the loud minority. Most of the people in Monteriggioni are actually really nice. And there are assholes everywhere."

"You could've just told him you're not gay," Clay points out.

Desmond rolls his eyes. "Eat some focaccia," he says around another bite and washes it down with some beer.

Clay looks at him, arches a single brow and then reaches for the plate. He makes a show of biting into the bread and chewing it, and Desmond gives him a smile in return. Clay snorts and leans back in his chair. "You think it was worth it?" he asks. "What you did for these people, was it worth it?"

"Yeah," Desmond says without hesitation. "It was."

"Really? Even if they never knew, never appreciated it? Even with _Juno_?"

Desmond meets his eyes levelly. "Yeah," he says firmly. "It was worth it."

Clay frowns and looks down at the focaccia. He breaks off a piece of it and throws it at Desmond. "Self sacrificial asshole," he murmurs and bites into the other piece. He's quiet for a moment then his shoulders slump. "Yeah, it was. So why the fuck _didn't_ it stick? Why the hell are we here?"

"You're here because you're a sneaky asshole. Me, hell if I know," Desmond says. "But since we're here, we might as well make most of it, you know? Have some beer, eat some pizza, have a night… stick it up to some bigots…"

"And be normal. And become investors. And millionaires. And buy a fucking villa, because why not," Clay says, making a face.

"Yeah. You know, the normal everyday stuff," Desmond agrees and grins and the way Clay rolls his eyes. "Come on, Clay. Take a day off. It's okay."

"Tch," Clay answers and takes another bite. He frowns at the piece of bread for a moment and then looks up at Desmond. Then he scowls and looks away, over the baluster and into the communal garden. "I guess it is a nice night out," he admits after a while, though he doesn't particularly sound happy about it.

"Mmm," Desmond answers with a nod and leans his cheekbone to the heel of his hand. "It really is."

Clay is quiet for a long moment, finishing the focaccia and draining half of his beer before talking again. "I'm sick of this shit," he mutters. "Being so fucking confused all the time. Being afraid. Why aren't you?"

"I'm just better at hiding it," Desmond admits. "And ignoring it. It helps too, not being alone this time around."

Clay swallows at that, his eyes on the beer glass. "I can't ignore it," he mutters. "The more I integrate, the better I know how scared we should be. All of it's just… it's so much. And we're just the two of us and you don't know what the hell you're doing. It's driving me fucking mad."

Desmond sighs and looks down to the glass Clay is all but strangling in his hands. He doesn't know what to say to that. Desmond knows how to deal with fear – he's been afraid all his life, it's such a deeply ingrained part of him that it doesn't even bother him anymore. It's just a fact of life. For Clay, who had been safe, had been secure, it's unnatural and in his face, so he can't ignore it.

"Anything I can do?" Desmond says.

Clay lets out a strangled laugh. "Kill Warren Vidic for me," he mutters under his breath. "And blow up that fucking Tower to hell."

Desmond blinks slowly and then runs the hand on his cheek up to his hair, scratching at his scalp. "That'll, uh… take some planning," he says slowly. "And explosives."

Clay blinks and lifts his head, looking at him. "Are you kidding me?"

Desmond huffs out a breath and reaches for his beer glass. He's getting drunk – the world is starting to sway in that soothing way that makes everything seem possible. Liquid courage and all that – but hell, it wouldn't be the first time he broke into Abstergo. Wouldn't be the first time he killed Warren Vidic either. The bombing bit is new, but… hell, Ezio was doing it five hundred years ago. How hard could it be?

And he'd be happier to do it for Clay than for William Miles, that's for damn sure.

"We're Assassins," Desmond says and shrugs before lifting the beer glass to take another drink. "It's what we do."


	6. Chapter 6

Eight days and he's done. Honestly, it took him longer than he thought it would – but then nothing quite compares to the speed of being able to upload just whole sections of his thought process into the machinery. Typing takes time and the laptop he has to work with is slow. Lag is probably to be expected.

The fact that Desmond had taken it to himself to drag him outside at least once a day isn't helping with the speed of their little project either, but Clay can't deny it's appreciated. Indoors it's easy to flip-flop, surrounded as he is by the year 2003 in all of its glory – it's easy to forget. Nothing like coming face to face with the Auditore villa to remind him where and when he is.

Though the younger, dumber he is finally starting to get a clue – he wakes up less and less thinking he's back in his dorm or that he should be back in school or that his dad would kill him. No, no, now he just wakes up in a panic of _what the shit is he doing in Italy_ and _who the hell thought this was a good idea_ and _who is this Desmond guy and why the fuck do I trust him so much?_

Because it's _Desmond_. Now shut up Kaczmarek, Sixteen has some coding to do.

Still, it's a relief to be finally done with the code. His little computer is a mess afterwards – he had to dismantle the operating system towards the end, it got in his way – so now it's… more a Animus 0.1/2 than a laptop. Bye, bye Windows, enter…

"If you had to name an operating system what would you call it?" Clay asks into the headset.

" _Kinda busy here, Clay_ ," Desmond answers, while slowly easing open a window on the third floor of a Florentine hospital.

"Yeah, yeah, but still. Once in a lifetime opportunity to name your very own, hitherto unseen operating system," Clay says, tapping at the keys without actually pressing them. "I'm giving you a big honour here."

" _I'm really not the guy to ask_ ," Desmond answers and finally gets the window open enough to get through it – which considering that he's hanging upside down with only a cable supporting him and his feet spread eagle to catch the window frames on each side of the window, is kind of impressive. Clay sees this all through a very, _very_ distant camera on the ground level – Desmond is barely a dark speck against the darkened walls.

Desmond flips inside and cuts the cable. " _Right, I'm in, where to next? Oh_ shit –"

"What?" Clay asks, instantly alert, leaning in. The hospital isn't very new, it has little in way of security, no burglary alarms or anything, but they're still technically robbing the place.

" _Room's not unoccupied – there are patients here_ ," Desmond whispers. " _I – I think they're all asleep though – where the hell do I need to go, Clay_?"

"Down to the first floor," Clay answers, glancing on the printout of the building plans. "Out, down the corridor to the left until you come into the open area – there should be stairwell to the right."

There's moment of silence – and little in way of footage – as Desmond moves on ahead. The hospital has some cameras indoors, but mostly only in the front lobby and in the psychiatry wing – the section where Desmond's entered is completely unmonitored.

"With any luck, they have still regular old key locks in the medical cabinet – it'll be on corridor B on the first floor, next to some offices – double doors with double locks, probably unmarked otherwise," Clay says. "Don't want to let any potential junkies know where the hard stuff is stored."

" _Nice_ ," Desmond says and Clay grins a little.

"Seriously, though. Operating system name. I'd call it Clay but that seems weirdly self-deprecating, and I'm not calling it the Animus, that's… eh," Clay says and opens the feeds to the few security cameras he does have access to. It's not much help for Desmond, but it should give advance warning in case he's about to be spotted.

" _Really can't talk right now, Clay_ ," Desmond whispers and there's the sound of metal clicking against metal – Desmond bringing out the lock picks.

"That's great, I can talk for you," Clay says without missing a beat. "I thought about calling it _Vidic_ , you know, for irony, because I stole it from Vidic technically even though he doesn't even know who I am yet and hopefully never will, and it would be kind of satisfying to be using his name for a tool… but I don't think I could stand seeing his name on my thing, you know? Then I thought, nah, I'll call it the _Brotherhood_ , because that's even more ironic, but also stupidly risky so maybe not. _Cross_ would be irony at its finest but yeah, the same problem as with _Vidic_ and _Brotherhood_ –"

Desmond's sigh on the channel is heavy, just as he closes the medical cabinet door behind him. " _The Truth, Clay_ ," he says quietly. " _Just call it the Truth. Now, what did you need from here_?"

"Right, I got a list here," Clay says and then starts rattling off the meds.

Desmond rummages through the medicine for a while, occasionally quiet clatter of pills sounding in the channel. Then he pauses. " _I thought we needed mostly psychedelics for the thing – stuff to induce the lucid dreaming? This one's an antidepressant_ ," he comments quietly. " _And… Adderall_?

Clay makes a face, even though Desmond can't see. "Those are just for me," he mutters and leans his elbows to his knees.

Desmond says nothing for a moment, and Clay expects him to start complaining about self-medicating, or something. He doesn't though. " _There's other stuff here if you want it_ ," he offers instead. " _I think this one's like Ritalin. And there's Prozac too_?"

Clay lets out a slow breath. "Usually Adderall's enough," he mutters and rubs a hand over his chin. "And Effexor works better for me than Prozac. Just get those two."

" _Okay_ ," Desmond says, and judging by the sound of it does just that. " _Was there anything else_?"

Clay turns to the list again and runs through it, Desmond checking every item on the way until they're sure they got all. "Grab syringes and shit before you go," Clay says. "And a bottle of antiseptic."

" _Right_ ," Desmond says and does that. " _Now what_?"

"Down to the cellar – they got storage rooms down there and with any hope, that's where they dump all their defunct stuff."

Clay is quiet as Desmond goes, watching the security feeds and spotting nothing unusual – the night nurses are just idling in the office, not doing much, every once in a while one of them going the rounds to check up on some patients, but mostly they're just sitting around waiting. It's pretty chill, breaking into a place with no armed security behind every corner.

Clay takes a breath and runs his fingers over his eyes. Fuck Desmond and his inability to judge people. As glad as Clay is that he doesn't, he also kind of wishes he had – having to justify the medicine out loud would make it feel bit more… real.

The construct in Animus Island hadn't needed meds any more than he needed to eat or drink or fucking piss. The college student had taken Adderall more as a stupid 21st century habit – it's what everyone at his college used to study, like the hipster junkies they all were. Somewhere between them lays the borderline ADHD and tendencies for OCD Clay _almost_ got diagnosed before William Miles came to sweep him off to the world of murder and bloodshed, giving him a new _leash_ on life and questionable sanity.

Granted, that diagnosis had only ever really existed because his shrink had been a fucking douche and Clay was the last patient the asshole needed for that juicy bonus, but anyway… it's still there. His brain is still stupid. And having a program from 2012 downloaded into it is not helping.

Adderall would probably not help either, but… it probably wouldn't hurt to try. And hopefully, Effexor would help him not feel so fucking shitty all the time. Hopefully. If not, then… fuck it.

Still, seeing as it is all in his head… If Desmond had even just for a moment questioned his judgment about it, forcing Clay to justify it, it would've made it feel just a tiny bit more authentic. And something about Desmond's unquestioning trust that Clay actually knows what he's doing is… well, it's nice. It's also fucking terrifying.

They're both trusting each other to know what they're doing – despite all the evidence to the contrary. Neither of them has a fucking clue, do they?

"We're going to crash and fucking burn at this rate," Clay mutters.

" _What was that_?" Desmond asks.

"Nothing."

" _Okay then. I'm here_ ," Desmond says and Clay looks up. " _Looks like we're in luck – there's a whole bunch of machinery here_."

"That's flipping awesome," Clay says and sighs. "Okay, here's what you're looking for…"

Desmond shuffles through the machinery, the only evidence of it sound in the headset while Clay tries to visualise what he's seeing by the descriptions. Heart monitor, crash cart, neither of which they need or could even get out of there…

" _I think this is it_ ," Desmond says finally. " _Yeah, this is it, there are electrodes and stuff in a net. I don't think I can carry this thing out the window, though. It won't fit my backpack_."

"You don't have to – there's a backdoor in the cellar, it leads to a loading dock – it's where the hospital cafeteria gets their foodstuff," Clay says and flips to camera outside. "Doesn't look like anyone's there. You should be good to go."

"… _Okay, walk me through it_ ," Desmond says.

Clay breathes a little easier once Desmond is out of the hospital, and he's done deleting him from the security camera footage, looping the recording and fixing the time stamp. With any luck, no one wouldn't notice anything amiss. "Hope you covered your tracks at the medicine cabinet," he says.

" _I only took bottles from the back, hopefully, they won't notice stuff's missing until a lot_ later," Desmond says. " _If ever. Okay, time to head home. I'll see you soon_."

Desmond signs off and Clay stares at the screen for a moment before sighing. Then he closes off the security feeds and opens up the code.

The Truth OS 0.1 thus gets its name on the 14th of April, 2003.

* * *

 

The Animus 0.1/2, as powered by Truth 0.1 is finished 17th of April, not that anyone's keeping track.

While Desmond does whatever he does around Monteriggioni when he's alone, Clay finishes setting up the sensors and hooking them and the, by then very badly mangled, EEG monitor to his laptop, creating the Frankenstein's monster of an Animus which sits half on the bedside table, and half on a bench. The whole thing is finished with little screen ripped off from a portable DVD player Desmond got for him just for the purpose, which Clay sets up on a jury-rigged extender made of a desk lamp. The whole thing is ridiculous.

Testing it on himself without Desmond there is probably insane.

Clay does it anyway.

He sets up an automated routine for the hud, hooks himself into the EEG with some flailing around and almost manages to rip some of his hair off in the process – the first thing he needs to fix is a headset for the EEG, seriously. Once he's done and has his brainwaves on the screen, he starts up the program and concentrates.

The waves flicker, stutter and slowly start forming into an image on the screen.

The way Animus works is really genius, as much as Clay hates to give Vidic the credit. The Animus is basically a really, really good user interface – a projector, like Vidic said. Animus is the screen, genes are the data that is being read but the processor… that's the human brain itself. Right now, his own brain.

"Oh, fuck me," Clay mutters and leans in.

Image of the Animus Island is starting to form on the screen, with its infinite waves and broken down physics, it's floating objects not quite real weather patterns. Sand that floated more than it fell, plants that didn't so much grow as they regenerated endlessly, and ambient light that came from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Wind that didn't actually _move_ properly.

Only it's not _in_ the Animus – there is no baseline programming running it, Clay hasn't loaded up any environments into the code. It's all in his head. So either he has the whole fucking Animus Island in his _fucking head_ , or he somehow created an infinitely stronger Animus programming than Abstergo ever managed.

In a proper Animus, the machine forces the brain to project images of the genetic memory – inserting a program into the processor, as it were. The processor then reads the program – the subject relives the memory as if they're there, in the past – and the Animus then projects the images the brain sees onto screens for outside viewing. That's the basic gist of it, anyway. It takes trickery to get to that point, though – it takes fooling the mind, making it believe what it's seeing is really happening, to get really clear images. Lucid dreaming.

There's some leeway in between there though. Human mind is still a faulty projector, after all, it gets the details wrong. So the Animus assists it – creating readymade environments, inserting physics, objects, terrains, weather patterns, stuff like that. The memories gave the environment visuals, but the _concrete_ un-reality of it was created by the Animus. Together, they created a tangible whole.

There's nothing creating the Animus island but Clay's own brain, though. And he hasn't even taken the drugs yet.

The screen flickers as Clay tries to think his way through it – how the hell did he do that? Does he actually have the Animus island in his head – did he somehow include that baseline programming into the backup? Or is his brain… different now?

Turning his eyes to the screen, Clay concentrates, narrowing his eyes. The image moves and with an eerie sense of vertigo, Clay gains control of it. No body manifestation – whatever's happening on the screen it's not creating him an avatar in the… whatever it is. It's not a simulation – but he can move in it, so it's not just a projected image either. The screen moves like it's a video game he's playing. His very own walking simulator of the Animus Island. Which he's controlling with his _brain_.

" _Fuck_ me," Clay breathes out again, squinting his eyes. On the screen, he speeds up – _runs_ without a body – to the memory gates. There's nothing there now, just inert columns and pillars, but it's still all there. Every rock, every stupid block, every pillar and column.

If this means that the manifestation of his brain is the fucking Animus Island, he's seriously going to jump out of a window. It makes sense in a way, though – how long had he spend in that fucking place, trying to break it apart, break it open? He knows it, sadly, like the back of his hand. Better even, because the back of his hand in the Animus hadn't been quite as detailed as it was in reality.

But what the hell this is, though… he's made _something_ here. Something pretty damn epic. He's pretty sure it's _not_ an Animus, though.

Licking his lips, Clay concentrates. If he's right, if he's made what he thinks he's made, then…

The image flickers, stutters – and then changes as he tries to remember. He can't visualise it quite as clearly as the Animus Island – doesn't have the deeply ingrained detail of it. But just for a moment, image of Monteriggioni shows on the screen, of Auditore Villa.

Desmond, walking beside him, smiling absently at something only he can see, Bleed of a long-dead ghost.

" _Why are there never any kids in the Animus_?" Desmond's voice sounds through the speakers. " _The only kids I ever saw were Ezio's brother and Caterina's kids. There were so many children in Monteriggioni, though, so many new families, but the Animus never showed them_."

" _What's the point?"_ Clay mouths along with the memory of himself, speaking the words. " _They're not important to the mission, don't affect it – so why waste processing power manifesting them?"_

Desmond gives him a look, thoughtful and a little sad. " _I guess_ ," he says and looks away.

The lock of the hotel door clicks and the image on the screen stutters – as Clay looks up, blinking, Desmond steps in.

"I got food," Desmond says and then stops to stare at him, sitting there on the bed, with electrodes in his head. "Clay," he says slowly, looking from him to the screens, to the wires connecting the EEG sensors to the screens. "What are you doing?"

"Testing," Clay says and looks at the screen. It's gone to static again. "I think I've created a way to read people's minds."

Desmond blinks slowly. "I thought that's what the Animus already does?" he says and slowly closes and locks the door behind him, setting the paper bag of food onto the table beside the door.

"Yes – but no, it's limited," Clay says and tilts his head. "There's a reason why it's used to read only memories – people's actual conscious minds are too staticky to be read. Genetic memory offers clear, concrete thing for Animus to render, but just thinking is," he shakes his head, trying to find a metaphor. "It's the difference of having water in a cup and water in your cupped palms. You can pretty easily measure and contain the first – but the other? Try and you'll just get a watery mess. Thoughts are like water smeared onto your palms – the very act of trying to measure them will just wipe them off."

He tilts his head and concentrates. Another image appears on the screen, this one a bit clearer than his rendition of Monteriggioni. Animus Tower – and his lovely little bedroom in it. Desmond sits quietly beside him and together they watch the afterimage of Subject Sixteen shakily smearing his blood onto the walls.

No, fuck that, he can do better.

Auditore Villa – yeah. They've been doing nothing but looking into the Auditore villa and its construction lately. He can do that.

Clay doesn't so much remember it as he _reconstructs_. First the major shapes – walls, floors, stairs – then adding to them their right colours and details and shapes and outlines. It's not a flat image seen by two eyes – no, it's a 3d model, build from scratch, layer by layer, until there are floors, walls, second floor, third floor, roof the tower, ceiling.

He renders the Auditore Villa layer by layer until they're watching a perfect re-imagining of Villa as it had been, once Ezio had finished the final repairs, over five hundred years ago.

"That's… not a memory, is it," Desmond says quietly.

"I've created actual thought projection," Clay says flatly. "Holy fucking shit."

Desmond looks at the screen and then looks at him. "Does it hurt, is it difficult – are you, uh… Bleeding?"

Clay shakes his head. "I'm just _thinking_. I didn't even use the drugs yet. That's my thoughts, my _imagination_ , being projected onto the screen and that's all."

Desmond says nothing for a moment, turning to the screen. "It's… it's pretty clear," he comments.

"Yeah, well, we've been going over the Villa blueprints non-stop for days, it's pretty clear in my head," Clay mutters and narrows his eyes. "Let's try something little more vague… hmm…" Something he barely remembers, something from long ago… something from the past.

No, rather, the future.

The image flickers and morphs, the shape of the 3d model disappearing. In its place appears the distant, static covered scaffolding of a construction site, blue sky behind it. Clay swallows and tries to remember the details – but he can't recall the colour of the scaffolding or the precise arrangement of the materials in the yard. They're only broken white noise on the screen. Some limitation there, then.

Through the white noise, a man appears, walking through the otherwise empty construction site, wading through the static. William Miles in his two-piece suit, hands in his pockets, looking like he belongs nowhere near the place. Back then Clay had worried he was some sort of inspector or a higher up in the company he didn't know, and he was about to be made responsible of things he really didn't want to be responsible for.

How ironic, that.

" _Clay Kaczmarek_?" William asks through the laptop speakers.

" _Yeah, that's me, what can I do for you, Mr_ …?"

" _Miles_ ," William says. " _You have a moment? There's something I would like to ask you in private_."

The image stutters and breaks to static.

"He just walked up to you at your workplace?" Desmond asks quietly. "How very covert of you, dad."

"Tch. Yeah," Clay says and takes the hair net of sensors off, wincing as his hair catches on the electrodes. "Shit, okay," he mutters and rubs at his eyes. "Using the drugs might still help get out better details on memories, and if you want to _go into_ the memory and embody it Animus style, the lucid dream is still the key… but apparently, we can also do this now."

"Yeah," Desmond says. "That's… really damn impressive, Clay."

Clay swallows and looks at the electrodes. "Fuck, imagine Abstergo getting their hands on this," he murmurs and shakes his head. "I've created the perfect interrogation tool, a polygraph of person's thoughts. Develop this a bit, perfect it, and it's a technological fucking truth serum."

Desmond says nothing for a moment. "Ah," he says then. "Yeah, it kind of is, isn't it?"

"And I made it from a _box of scraps_ ," Clay says and lets out a hysterical little giggle. "Just call me Iron Man, why don't you?"

Desmond huffs out a little laugh and then puts a hand on his back, pressing lightly. "What do you want to do with it?" he asks. "If you want to get rid of it, that's okay."

"Fuck no, are you kidding me?" Clay scoffs. "Destroy this? Look at it, Seventeen," he says and waves at the set up he has. "With a laptop, EEG machine and screen from a damn DVD player, I've created _mind-reading_. I don't want to destroy it – I want to _perfect_ it."

Desmond frowns a little and Clay turns to him. "Don't you dare give me that Assassin bullshit about dangerous technologies," Clay says. "I know Ezio has his back-ass-ward views on what is good for humanity, but contrary to popular beliefs, you can't stop technological development. You can only stall it.

Desmond takes a breath and then releases it, looking conflicted.

"Better us than them," Clay says, watching him. "Right? If I can figure this out, then so can other people. And the next person to figure this out, it's going to be one of Abstergo's. You know it will be – and you know what they will do with it."

"Yes," Desmond says finally, slowly. "But…" he stops and lets out a frustrated breath, running a hand over his face, his hair. "What does this mean, though? It's out of Pandora's box now, you can't shove it back in, I get that, but… now what? And us having it now won't prevent Abstergo from possibly figuring it out later."

"Maybe, maybe not," Clay says and taps his fingers on the EEGs. "There are these things called patents."

"I doubt Abstergo gives a crap about patents," Desmond mutters.

"They don't – but they care about money and lawyers," Clay says and turns the EEG machine in his hands. "This is huge, Desmond. This is the _next step after smartphones level of huge_ , and smartphones aren't even a thing yet. If I can use this to read a mind, recreate thoughts and memories, then I can use it to create a brain control UI. This – will change everything. If we do this right, this will be bigger than fucking Microsoft, and Google, and Apple, combined."

Bigger even than Abstergo in its many-tentacled all-consuming glory. If they got big enough, strong enough – influential and rich enough – then maybe, maybe…

Desmond blows out a breath. "Yes," he says quietly. "Or we will lose it to Abstergo, and that will be that. We're just two guys, Clay, and not in that good a position right now. If we try to get a patent for this somehow, it will be taken off our hands in an instant."

Clay's fingers clench on the electrodes and he turns to look at him. "Fuck," he murmurs and then bows his head. "Fuck, you're right."

Abstergo would only need a whisper and it would be all over. And they'd lose more than this little gadget in the process, probably. Shit, he's really getting ahead of himself.

But damn, wouldn't it be _something_ to be bigger than Abstergo? Wouldn't it be glorious to be more powerful? To not… to not have to be the fucking _little guy_ , forever stomped under the heel of the big bad?

Desmond is quiet as he strokes his hand up and down on Clay's back, slow and steady and soothing. "We hide it, for now," he says then. "Use it on ourselves, get what we need, and then hide it. Later, maybe, if we can get the investing to work, if I can get the money flowing… once we have enough and are in a better position…"

Clay looks up at him with a frown and Desmond shrugs, looking awkward. "I'm kinda way out my comfort zone here, Clay," he admits. "And this scares the shit out of me. But you're right. Better us than them."

Clay scoffs quietly and looks at the jury-rigged machine. "It's a lot of ifs," he mutters. "If we get this if we can do that. If, if, _if_."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees, still stroking his back, up and down, up and down. It's almost hypnotising. "Turns out life is a little uncertain, what do you know."

Clay scoffs and hangs his head for a moment, arching his back into Desmond's hand as he inhales deeply and exhales slowly. "You want to try it, see if I can get you into that bar of yours?" he asks then, lifting the net of electrodes. "Or do you want to wait until I figure out a better headset for these?"

"Now's fine," Desmond says and swallows, looking at the net. "Yeah, now's good. What do I need to do?"

"First we put this on and then see what you can do with it," Clay says.

The headset goes easier onto Desmond, as he has such short hair that it doesn't really get in the way. It's kind of ridiculous looking, on the outside, but so are EEG machine sensors in general. Desmond bears it with nervous dignity as Clay eases the electrodes where they need to go and then turns to the laptop.

"Try and visualise something for me," Clay says. "A place, a memory. Anything. Let's see if we can read your mind."

Desmond leans his elbows on his knees and narrows his eyes a little, thinking. It takes a moment of static before the screen starts forming an image, shapes, objects first blurry shapes only until they start clearing into things with outlines and recognizable shapes.

Desmond is visualising the Auditore Villa too. He doesn't do it quite as methodically as Clay had, he doesn't build it element by element. He builds it in whole, as it is now – in disrepair with a broken roof and rotting floors, painting and shading the walls in snapshots of memories and sensations.

"I'm not quite as artistic as you," Desmond says with a shake of his head. "Not bad though."

"No, not bad at all," Clay answers, frowning a little. It's not half bad for someone who has no actual training in this sort of stuff.

Clay had gone to – and in one timeline, _finished_ – a school of engineering. Designing things, reconstructing them from images, that sort of stuff is not exactly something you just acquire from nowhere, it has to be learned. And mentally building three-dimensional objects out of nowhere, it's not easy – it takes mental training.

Especially doing it like this – with just your mind and thoughts. It takes training to visualise things so clearly. It takes a lot of practice.

Clay has experience with it, though, a lot of it. He'd build environments in Animus Island. He'd had to, to recreate nexus points not just for himself… but later on for Desmond too. Constantinople and everything else in Ezio's later years, that was all him. Sure, back then he had actual Animus and programs to work with, but even so, with that sort of experience, building shit in his head isn't even hard.

Desmond has _none_ of that experience though.

"Let's try for a memory," Clay says. "From after our little jump in time – or, before. Non-genetic memory sort. Try and visualise that bar of yours maybe."

"Hm," Desmond answers and blinks. The image of Auditore Villa sputters out and the screen goes black. "Bad Weather," Desmond murmurs, and then there is an image on the screen.

There's barely any reload time – it just clarifies and then they're looking at a bar. A dark wooden counter with coasters and glasses to the right-hand corner, with an advertisement for a drink next to them – on the left-hand corner there are tabs and faucets for different beers and ciders. Across the bar there are tables, benches, little further away a pillar, behind it a stage. Lights in the ceiling, a disco ball. How classy.

Desmond's eyes go low lidded and then the memory gets populated. Customers pop into existence from nowhere, women frozen in time as they lean towards the _camera_ – towards Desmond – waving their credit cards and smiling as they order. Men standing around little further away, one of them checking the women out. Further back more people, sitting at the tables, drinking, talking – or rather shouting judging by their frozen expressions. On one table some guy is leaning back with a girl in his lap, making out much to the disgust of their table fellows. Further back people are dancing and a fog machine is spewing a cloud at their feet, covering the dance floor in the mist that glows under disco lights.

Clay folds his arms, tilting his head, fascinated. Desmond builds his memory like he's in the Animus – first environment, then people dropped right into it. Next should come –

And then the speakers start to pound music at them – some song Clay has never heard with heavy, pounding beat. The image goes from a still to living in an instant, and suddenly everything is moving, lights flashing – people breathing, talking, shouting.

" _Two Shirley Templars with Sprite please_!" one of the girls shouts over the beat while thrusting her chest over the counter. " _And one Heineken_!"

" _Coming right up_ ," Desmond's voice answers, close to the speakers, and Clay looks down to Desmond who is frowning a little, not looking quite at the screen but to the left of it. On the screen the image turns and Clay gets to watch Desmond's hands from first-person perspective as he mixes two drinks with quick, efficient movements before handing them over to the counter. While the girls grab their drinks, Desmond's hands pour them a beer from the tap.

The image freezes there, to the action of Desmond's hands holding out the beer and accepting the credit card.

"How much of this is my imagination and how much is the memory?" Desmond asks. "How accurate is this?"

"Hard to tell," Clay admits. "It's not exactly a peer-reviewed science and we've already proven you can project clear images out of pure imagination. Why?"

Desmond points at the screen. "Just wondering if I'm imagining that or not."

On the screen, in the shadow of one of the pillars that decorate the bar, there stands Lucy Stillman, watching the counter. She's in bar-clothes – a very nice black blouse with frills and skirt that had a slanted hem. In her hand, she has a purse – in her ear, a headset.

"This is the night I was captured by Abstergo," Desmond says quietly. "There was a DJ and the bar was absolutely packed with people – barely had a time for a break. We closed at four, I helped clean up and close the place up for the night – and the moment I stepped outside, someone grabbed me from behind and that's the last I remember of Bad Weather. I'm just… wondering if it was her, who grabbed me."

Clay doesn't say anything, watching the image of Lucy hovering by the pillar. Then he lowers his eyes to Desmond's hunched figure. "Ever seen her in those clothes before? Seen her all done up for a night at the club?"

"… no, I haven't," Desmond answers and sighs. The image disappears into static and Desmond pulls the sensors off his head, running his hand through his short hair. "I guess this thing works for memory recollection too," he mutters.

"Yeah," Clay says and looks away.

He'd not thought about Lucy Stillman in a while.

Would've been nice to keep things that way.

"She's not in Abstergo yet, you know," Clay says quietly. "She's not even on the mission yet – not sure they've even _thought_ the mission up yet. As far as I know, Lucy is still with the Assassins – still loyal. She's, what, fifteen now?"

"… I don't know what to do with that information," Desmond answers. "Fuck," he then groans and runs hands over his face. "What the _fuck_."

Yeah, that sounds about right. "Right," Clay says and stands up. "Let me figure out a better set up for the sensors and then we can try recollecting your memories of stock exchange tips from drunken bankers. Maybe get some investment going. It'll be fun."

"Yeah," Desmond says and hands over the net of sensors. "And then what?" he asks and lets out a weary-sounding laugh. "Try and become the next Apple? What the hell are we doing, Clay?"

"Whatever the fuck comes into our heads, apparently literally," Clay says and looks the sensors over. Then he shrugs. "On lighter note… buying and rebuilding the Auditore Villa just became the _easiest_ of all the things we're doing."

Desmond looks at him, face half hidden in his hands and then he lets out a breath. "See the future, invest in future tech, kill Vidic, destroy Abstergo Tower… become the next Apple… yeah buying a two million euro Villa in Italian countryside that will probably take another ten to fix, that's nothing," he lists and sighs. "Jesus Christ, this is _insane_."

"Yeah," Clay shrugs and turns to his mind-reading machine. Because now he has a mind-reading machine. Right on. "Let's do it anyway."


	7. Chapter 7

Desmond settles back into his skin with a shudder and then he's standing behind the counter, a glass in his hands. The world hasn't loaded fully around him, elements are still rendering in and as he watches chairs and walls and pillars appear, colours bleeding into them like someone is throwing paint. It by bit, Bad Weather grows around him while he sets the glass down and runs his hand along his left arm.

Bigger, longer – tattooed. Not quite as hard with muscle though. He's gotten used to being a bit smaller in his skin – it's weird being back. It's weird having the tattoo back. He's missed it but at the same time…

" _How does that feel_?" Clay's voice sounds in his ear – not echoing around him really, not like in Animus. Clay isn't on the headset – he's sitting beside him on the bed, with the laptop in front of him. No need to bother with a headset.

"Familiar," Desmond answers.

" _I mean – does it feel like you're embodied? This isn't like normal Animus, you know, the machine isn't going to lock you down on a memory – it's your own mind doing the work here, your mind generating the environment. Does it feel real?_ "

Desmond pinches at his skin and winces. Then he looks up and walks around the counter, to explore the space of Bad Weather.

"I don't know," Desmond admits. "It's pretty much exactly like being in the Animus. Except…" he stops and runs a hand over a table's surface. There's tacky something smeared onto the surface – someone had spilled a drink and it's dried a bit. It feels sticky and real.

" _Except_?" Clay says.

"Everything's – I don't know. Deeper?" Desmond answers and looks up at the ceiling. The lights hanging overhead have been dimmed down – it's not a party night, no DJ in the house that night. Or it just hasn't rendered yet. "In Animus it's always a bit superficial, like nothing goes in deep – like everything is made of emptiness. Just surface, and nothing inside. Does that make sense?"

" _That's how computer graphics in 3D generally go_ ," Clay's voice answers. " _Polygons over empty space_."

"Here it feels like if I took an axe to this table, I'd get splinters," Desmond says and scrapes a fingernail over the table's surface. "Everything goes deeper, somehow."

" _Hmm. Point for brains then – imagination produces more authentic environments. Hooray for neurons. Walk around a bit so that I can save the environment_."

Desmond nods and then walks around in the eerily empty bar, running his hands over the backs of chairs and over tables. Bad weather is a large club in four different sections and two floors. Desmond tended to man the _nightclub_ side of the bar because he's fast and precise and can multitask well enough to keep up with a faster pace. The other sections aren't quite so hectic, though.

There's the quieter area with tables, separated by the nightclub side of the bar with a fancy wood and metal baluster – it's where people sit when they want to sit and watch the dancers. Then there is the _back room_ which is really more of a hall – there's more tables there and two pool tables, three different televisions, and a lot of random stuff to keep those people occupied who didn't want to bother with the noise of the nightclub.

The last section is basically a lounge area – used to be a smoking room before they stopped letting people smoke indoors. Now it's inhabited by leather couches and low tables and more often than not-so-legal poker games. If anyone asked, no one bet money on the games, of course not – surely the thousands of dollars exchanging hands was just monopoly money.

" _Fancy place_ ," Clay comments as Desmond runs his hands over the back of one of the leather couches, feeling the cushions give away under the weight of his palms. " _How did you end up working in a place like this, what with your identity issues?_ "

"My identity issues?" Desmond asks, glancing upwards – even though Clay can't see it, not like in Animus. As far as he's figured it, the visuals Clay gets is only what Desmond sees – it's not the over-shoulder thing Animus does. The Truth is in first person.

" _I'm thinking you didn't go around calling yourself Desmond Miles the Assassin Runaway_ ," Clay says flatly.

"No, I didn't," Desmond says. "By that point I did have some fake IDs, pretty good ones. Not _issued by the government_ good, but decent enough to pass for real at a glance. I heard they were hiring, went out asking, got the job."

Clay says nothing for a moment. " _Huh_ ," he says then.

It didn't hurt that Bad Weather had a reputation for hiring certain type of people and Desmond fit that bill exactly – and didn't complain about the ensuing harassment he got from it. Well at that point he'd done worse things for money – and none of it got anywhere close to _killing people_ level of bad.

"Do you have the place saved yet?" Desmond asks.

" _Are there any back rooms, bathrooms, places you might need to go to later?_ "

"I don't exactly need to eat or piss or take a break here, Clay."

" _I mean for memories, you idiot – did anything happen to other places you might need a ready-made environment for later?_ "

Desmond huffs a breath and then heads to the back room to have the place saved up as well, before heading up to Mike's office. Usually locked, it opens here without any resistance and Desmond slips inside.

It's a nice office, he'd always thought. Bad Weather wasn't the wealthiest club ever, but it did serve pretty high-class clientele – it raked in a decent amount of money. Mike's office reflects that – it's all clean lines, very modern, with a fancy computer setup sitting on a glass desk and crystal paperweight sitting on the desk for no other reason than for appearances. Like office of a rich businessman, rather than an owner of a bar.

It's… a bit weird, being there without Mike, though. The guy wasn't exactly a hard-ass or anything like that, but the office was very much off limits unless Mike specifically invited you in. Desmond had been invited in, a lot.

Mike had had a thing for him.

"You got it?" Desmond asks and turns away from the office.

" _Yeah_ ," Clay answers in his ear. " _I think I have the place down now. How about trying on some actual memories now._ "

Desmond nods and slips back outside, thinking about what he wants to remember. A game night, he decides. That's when they got the most businessmen and people of that nature – people with money to show off and bragging to do.

The music starts in first – slow jazz rather thumping club dance music, low and smooth. The lights are turned on low, on the dimmest setting – a golden glow that makes the lighter surfaces look darker and makes the bar look a lot elegant than it does under disco lights. Bad Weather was furnished in pretty fancy style, all told – black leather and bronze shades, with hardwood stained dark. The light just makes everything feel that tiny bit more classic.

Then the people start appearing – first the waitresses and bartenders, then the customers. Guys in suits, women in cocktail dresses, some of them hanging by the counters, some lounging by the chairs – most will be in the back rooms, by the pool tables, or playing cards.

" _Damn_ ," Clay says to his ear, as the scene comes alive around Desmond, people starting to move. " _This actually looks pretty nice_."

"Mm," Desmond answers, looking over the slowly moving crowd. "These were nice nights. Quiet. People sitting around drinking and boasting how rich and famous they are."

" _Sounds utterly enthralling_ ," Clay says with a snort. " _Go find us investment tips_."

Desmond nods, grabbing an empty tray from the counter, he starts going around the memory, grabbing empty glasses off tables and listening in on conversations as he does. Most of them aren't about anything particularly interesting – two-bit actresses talking about tv shows they'd been in or extra's they played in movies, and businessmen talking about deals they'd closed and so on.

It's in the back rooms that they hit the jackpot like Desmond had hoped. There is a group of men in suits hanging by the pool table, not playing pool – though one of them is gathering the balls up for another round. Others have spread a newspaper across the other end of the table, and are pointing at something in it.

Desmond leans in – it's copy of a _New York Times_ opened on a business section.

" _Two thousand and ten_ …" Clay mutters while Desmond leans in the look. " _That's not very useful for us now_."

"Yeah," Desmond says, collecting a glass from the edge of the pool table before looking away. One of the TV's is on – and on it, unsurprisingly, is open on CNBC, with numbers and percentages scrolling on the bottom of the screen while the anchor speaks about ups and downs of the stock exchange.

" _Do you think you can recall earlier memory?_ " Clay asks. " _We need something more recent to start with._ "

"I only started working here around two thousand and seven," Desmond admits. "But I can try."

" _What were you doing before working here_?"

Desmond hesitates. "Not working here," he settles on saying and then frowns. "I don't know how to skip backwards in memory here," he then admits. "It's not like I can load up a DNA sequence and just go."

" _Hmm_ ," Clay answers, sounding thoughtful and a little dubious. " _Think of something that happened that year. Event or a thing. How about your first day on the job maybe?_ "

Desmond sets the tray of glasses down and then walks away from the pool room and back towards the counter. His first day – yeah, he can do that.

Bad Weather, 2007, hadn't been that much different from 2010. Some different customers, some different staff – and he'd been younger. He was twenty then, didn't yet know how to dress for the job, didn't know how to do the job. He'd been hired because of his looks, he knows that much – to fill a recently opened post only temporarily. He'd been paid by the day, with no proper contract or anything – Mike hadn't expected to keep him, but then Desmond turned out to be good at the job and got to stay. Those first days though…

Desmond runs a hand over his left arm, and watches the tattoo shift – ink bleeds away from it, disappearing backwards in time, until only few lines remain.

" _Shit – really_?" Clay asks in his ear.

Desmond strokes his hand over the Assassin symbol on his outer arm and then looks up. There are someone's hands on his arm.

It's Mike, standing in front of him – rolling his shirt sleeves up for him with slow, steady motions. "You keep your sleeves rolled up, like this, above elbows – that way you don't get them in the drinks. It looks cleaner too," the elder man says. "And get a waistcoat – a black one. Doesn't have to be expensive or anything, just make sure it's clean and fits you. And try and wear matching trousers."

"Yes, sir," Desmond says and looks down as Mike strokes his wide palm over his inner arm, over the lines. The old nervousness he felt echoes now – though it has little to do with the way Mike was touching him.

It's the damn tattoo. It's still fresh enough to feel sore on his arm too, red around the edges and swollen enough that he can feel the lines of it under his fingers.

" _Why the hell do you have the Assassin A tattooed on your arm – were you a fucking_ idiot?" Clay asks incredulously in his ear.

"Yeah," Desmond answers and runs a hand over the tattoo. "I, uh… got pretty messed up one night and woke up with it the next morning. It's how I lost my previous job. They had a no-tattoo policy."

" _Jesus Christ, Seventeen_ ," Clay says with a huff.

"Yeah, I know, trust me, I know it was stupid," Desmond shakes his head and looks up as Mike moves to show him how to work the tabs behind the counter. "I got it covered up with the other tattoo as quick as I could, as soon as I had money for it."

" _You're lucky no one took a picture or anything of it before you did, you idiot_."

"Yeah, I know, thanks," Desmond agrees with a sigh. "Lucky I don't have to worry about it now."

" _That means you're not going to get the tattoo again?_ "

Desmond shakes his head again. "I don't know, it was kind of recognizable later on," he mutters and looks away. Plus he has a feeling about _why_ he went with that specific design after and he doesn't particularly like the thought of going for it again. "Let's just try and figure this memory stuff out. We can talk about tattoos later."

" _Fine. Go find us some businessmen, then_."

"Right," Desmond says and goes to work.

* * *

 

Using Clay's Truth is lot more fluid compared to using an Animus – the memories shift and blend more easily, and events aren't quite so linear. And there's no synchronisation to worry about – though he can try to break the memory, it doesn't shatter like genetic memories do. It just shifts and heals itself like an organic thing.

" _Well it is organic_ ," Clay says, while Desmond hovers over another set of the faceless businessmen, listening them talk about the market crash that was happening in 2007 and 2008. " _It's all in your head and human minds are malleable. You can't break a program when the program doesn't exist._

Once Desmond gets the trick of shifting in time down, it's not hard at all to jump from a night to night, to track down those times when the bar was full of certain sort of patrons. Bit by bit, Clay records the things they see and hear – building up a timeline of events and moments to come concerning the stock exchange in the later part of the decade. Getting something bit more immediately useful takes time though, and even then they only get bits and pieces.

A glimpse of a news report about Apple's stock value over years, a piece on Amazon and how it was rising fast in value, a brief history on some medical company, another piece on an insurance company… articles with nice handy graphs about the value of their stock over the years. It wasn't as good as having a full timeline of all of the stock exchange of early 2000's maybe, but it was something.

And then there's of course Abstergo.

" _Because we will definitely invest in fucking Abstergo_ ," Clay mutters.

Abstergo wouldn't be that useful for what they want anyway – it rarely had any usable lows. Abstergo stayed pretty much level, as far as stock value went. To get the money they needed, they needed stocks that had noticeable lows followed by highs. Or which would get more valuable as time went on, anyway, like Apple and Amazon, which –

"Yeah, we're investing in Amazon," Desmond mutters as he reads through the article on the company over some banker's shoulder.

" _No shit_ ," Clay says. " _But that won't do us much until much later. We need something bit more current_."

"I don't think this is going to work immediately, Clay," Desmond warns him. "It's going to take months, maybe years, for this to pay up. It'll pay up well once it does, maybe, but… it's going to take time."

Clay doesn't answer immediately and Desmond stops reading, waiting for him to answer.

" _Right_ ," Clay says. " _Right, okay I have another idea that will work a lot quicker – but I don't think you're going to like it much_."

Desmond tilts his head. "Okay. Shoot."

" _My dad_ ," Clay says and sighs. " _He does lottery pretty much religiously, and… I probably have winning numbers saved up in my head_."

Desmond blinks. "I – huh," he says and frowns.

" _Yeah_ ," Clay agrees.

Desmond thinks about it for a moment, leaning his hip onto the pool table and looking over the memory of the bar. That would definitely be faster. "Those would be in the US, though," he says slowly. "And uh – how safe would it be? How anonymous is it?"

" _I have no idea. It's not as classy as stock exchange, probably not as secure either, and going for it multiple times would be a bad idea… but it'll be quicker, probably, granted that I actually remember any numbers that are coming up soon_ ," Clay says. " _But yeah, it would be in the_ _US_ _. We'd have to go back_."

And leave Monteriggioni, Desmond thinks and lowers his eyes.

" _Desmond, we're on limited time here as it is_ ," Clay says quietly. " _Our visas are going to run out eventually, and we'll have to go back anyway. So, let's say we go back, we do the lottery thing – and then we come back, this time with money._ "

Desmond sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know, Clay," he says. "Lottery winners tend to get their names publicised, whether they like it or not."

" _So we don't go for the jackpot – we go for second or third best, try for a smaller, safer, win_ ," Clay says. " _Tens or hundreds of thousands maybe_."

"We need _millions_ , remember?"

" _We need something to begin with_ ," Clay points out. " _We can't even start this stock exchange thing on pocket change – you'd have to spend months pickpocketing and do you have any idea what a hassle getting all that into a bank account would be? Bank account which we don't even have, Seventeen. Or what, were you planning open one in_ _Italy_ _– with American ID's? And no pre-existing bank records? Yeah, good luck with that._ "

Desmond sighs and runs his hand down his face. "Fuck," he mutters and then looks around Bad Weather. "Get me out of here, Sixteen, I want to see your face when I'm talking to you."

He can't feel the needle as Clay administers a stimulant, but he knows it happens, he can hear Clay do it. It takes a moment for it to take effect and moment longer for Desmond's mind to shake off the memories of Bad Weather. Slowly, fuzzily, the ceiling of their hotel room appears in its place above his head, with Clay in the corner of his vision, hovering over him.

"I'm not saying the stock exchange thing isn't a good idea, because it is," Clay says, watching him. "We just need other things done before it. You know we do."

Desmond sighs and rubs his hands over his slightly numb face, still bleary with the drugs. "We could make it work here," he says and takes a breath. "I could make it work. Rob a store if I had to, open a bank account in Switzerland or whatever. We're not that far from here – we can travel there on our visas. We could make it work."

Clay looks at him and then pushes the laptop aside and stretches himself out beside Desmond on his belly, propped up to his elbows. "The visas are going to run out eventually, and we either head back to get new ones legally, or we stay here illegally," he points out. "We can't get residential visas now – we missed the window of opportunity weeks ago."

Desmond covers his eyes with his palms for a moment and then sighs. Clay's not wrong. "You don't think it will be a bit weird? We open bank accounts and then immediately have a lottery win?" Desmond asks and shakes his head. "That's suspicious as hell. Pretty sure banks look into that sort of things."

Clay sighs and Desmond looks up at him. Clay's leaning his cheek onto his palm, watching him. "I know you don't want to leave, I don't either. But you didn't think we could just settle here and be done with it either. You're not that dumb."

Desmond looks at him for a moment and then looks away. "I was kind of hoping anyway," he admits quietly.

Clay is quiet for a moment then lays down, his head resting on Desmond's arm. "We don't have to go yet," he murmurs against Desmond's sleeve. "We still got like fifty days in our visas left. I need to scour my memories for the numbers anyway, and it won't hurt for you to build up the plan for the investing, get that shit ready for once we can get to using it. And we'll come back. Eventually."

Desmond says nothing for a moment and then turns his head to look at Clay. "Tell me honestly," he says. "Do you actually want to get the Auditore Villa with me, or are you just humouring me? Do you want any of this?"

Clay looks up – their faces are so close Desmond can feel his breath against his chin. "You think I don't? That I'd be here at all if I didn't?"

Desmond searches his eyes for a moment, thinking of turning on the Eagle Vision… but he decides against it and instead turns to lay on his side, facing Clay. The Truth's headset is hovering over them like a weird technological claw, vaguely intimidating, and behind Clay, the screens glow with faint blue light. Desmond looks at them and then at Clay.

"What if we set up shop in the US instead – buy a place there, bunker down in some apartment in New York or something?" he asks quietly. "What would you think about that?"

Clay sighs and closes his eyes. "We won't. You want the Auditore Villa, so we're getting that one, right?" he asks.

"But do you even want that?" Desmond asks, frowning. "Is there a place where you'd rather go?"

"For fuck's sake, Seventeen, I don't care where we decide to set up shop," Clay sighs and gives him a look. "It's not the _place_ that matters."

"But –" Desmond starts to say and then falls quiet. "Ah," he says then and lowers his eyes.

Clay huffs out an annoyed breath and then presses their foreheads together. For a moment they're quiet, just pressing their heads together, breathing the same air. "You wanna go out and have a drink?" Clay then offers tentatively.

Desmond closes his eyes for a moment. "Yeah," he says. "No. Let's grab some beers from the supermarket and then go climb on top of the Villa."

Clay snorts at that. "Sounds like a plan."

* * *

 

It's still early in the evening when they make up to the rooftop of the Auditore Villa. At this point, people of Monteriggioni are so used to seeing Desmond and Clay strolling around the Villa that no one even bats an eye at them heading up the stairs with a six-pack in hand – at this point, it's probably pretty much expected of them.

Desmond is the first one to climb up – Clay can manage it but it takes him a bit slower and he's bit awkward. "Fucking – lack of training," Clay mutters once they make it up to the roof. "This is so much easier on the Animus."

"If you want we could start sparring," Desmond offers. He's taken to doing some push ups and sit ups and such to keep in shape – along with a lot of stretching because he really doesn't want to lose the limberness he has again – but actual hand to hand combat wouldn't go amiss.

"Yeah, maybe," Clay says and drops to sit on top of the ceramic roof tiles, just next to one of the holes on the roof. "That's a pretty nice view," he says then.

It really is, Desmond thinks, peering up at the sky and then over the town. Sun is hanging low, casting long shadows over the streets, painting the rooftops in vivid colours. They can't quite see over the commune walls even from the top of the villa, but they can see onto the walls at least. It is pretty spectacular sight when it's still light out.

Last time he'd been up here, back in 2012, it had always been in the moonlight.

Desmond sits down beside Clay and sighs. "I love this place," he admits. "So much I can barely handle it."

"Ezio's leftovers," Clay says, reaching for the beers and wringing one of them out of the cardboard packet. "Emotional transference."

"Yeah, a bit." Desmond agrees and accepts the can he hands over. "But it's not just that. It's… I don't know. This place is real to me in a way no other place has ever been."

Clay hums and gets can for himself as well, before leaning back and lying down on the tiles. "Bad Weather's pretty real in your memories," he comments, resting the can on his chest, unopened.

"It's just a workplace, though," Desmond answers, propping one leg up and balancing his can on his knee. "And I don't even remember that much about the apartment I lived in while working there. And the farm – you saw that in Animus Island. I barely remember anything about the place, forgot half of the buildings and almost all of the people. Monteriggioni is… more than that. Does that make sense?"

"The word you're looking for is home," Clay says flatly.

Desmond looks at him, frowning a little.

"It has context and history and you can see its future," Clay explains and makes a wave with his hand. "But at the same time, it feels like it's always been there and always will be, never changing even though it's so different. It's like under your skin, part of you. That's what it feels to have a hometown, Desmond."

"Oh," Desmond says and looks down to Monteriggioni again. "That's what it is. Huh."

Clay snorts at him and shifts where he lies, putting his left arm behind his head to serve as a pillow. "Welcome back to human experience. Next up, settling down and having a family."

"I wish," Desmond mutters and then leans back as well, lying down beside Clay. "Do you miss your hometown?"

"No, are you kidding me? I couldn't leave it fast enough," Clay says and rolls his eyes. "Both of me, even. There are two types of people, you know – those who leave their hometown and those who become part of their hometowns. I was the first."

Desmond turns his head to look at him, curious. "What was it like, growing up, you know… I don't want to say _normal_ , but you know. Normally, outside cult setting."

Clay doesn't answer immediately, blinking up at the darkening sky for a moment and then looking at him. "Your childhood was like, what – training, every day?" he asks. "Did you ever play, like – fuck, if you didn't you wouldn't even know what it means to play like a normal kid."

"We played Assassins and Templars," Desmond offers.

"Christ," Clay laughs and shakes his head. "That's fucked up. Cops and Robbers, that's the original game. Or just old-fashioned _tag_. Please tell me you didn't actually play with hidden knives and hoods and shit."

"Wooden models," Desmond shrugs. "We made them ourselves in the Farm workshop – it was like… equivalent to a woodshop class I think."

"Making wooden hidden blades," Clay says and shakes his head incredulously.

Desmond shrugs and looks upwards again. "What did you do when you were a kid?"

"I played," Clay scoffs. "I was in kindergarten while my parents worked, and I played with the kids on a playing ground, with swings and slides and stuff. Mostly just running around in fun and interesting setups. Then I went to elementary school and learned to read and write and I played sports, soccer and baseball and shit. Normal kid stuff. I had friends and fooled around."

Desmond sighs, trying to imagine it. Of course, he'd seen stuff like that in TV, he's not a complete _alien_ here, but it had never seemed quite real to him, that you could just… do that, do nothing but play. When he'd been a kid it had just seemed like a fictional thing that only happened to people on TV shows – something Hollywood had made up. Or something only really rich – and evil – people could afford to do.

Real hard working people, like Assassins, they didn't have time to play, they had to work and train.

"I can't imagine you as a kid," Desmond admits.

"Imagine a blond little hyperactive shithead poking stuff with sticks and breaking things," Clay scoffs. "That was me. I broke stuff a lot – my dad's radio, this other kid's toy robot, my own bike, several times even. Always thought I could put them back together. Usually couldn't, but I damn well tried."

"Okay, that I can imagine," Desmond says and grins. "Little you trying to figure how things work. I bet you liked doing puzzles when you were a kid."

"I was obsessed with them, yeah. Always wanted to figure out how people came up with them. When I got a Rubik’s cube, I took it apart and then arranged the sides bit by bit manually," Clay says, sounding nostalgic. "It never worked again, but hey, I completed it."

Desmond laughs at that a little and then opens the beer can, sitting up halfway to drink before lying down again. "What was your hometown like?" he asks.

"Nothing like Monteriggioni. Wasn't really even a town. We lived in suburbs, this sprawl of lawns and samey two-story houses and driveways as far as the eye can see. Monotonous as shit," Clay says and waves a dismissive hand. "It wasn't a community the way this place is. It was just… outskirts."

Desmond sighs. "I see."

Clay turns to look at him and then turns to lie on his side, propping his head up with his hand. "I get it, alright? You want to be part of like… the people, the way Ezio was, but not the way you were," he says. "You want to be part of something but not its tool, right?"

Desmond blinks and looks at him. "Yeah, I guess," he admits and frowns. "That's it, yeah. Don't you?"

Clay purses his lips and then shrugs. "I," he starts and then frowns. "I didn't mind being a tool if it was for a good cause. Being part of something bigger, you know," he says and looks at Desmond. "I don't know anymore. I guess I don't really care. Anything else is a step up in comparison to you-know-what," he shrugs.

Desmond doesn't really know what to say to that.

"Fucked up, isn't it?" Clay asks flatly. "You can say it, I promise you won't hurt my feelings."

Desmond shakes his head. "It's not," he says. "Everything is better in comparison and it’s not bad to want to be a part of something bigger. I'm just… don't you want anything more?"

"Didn't we go over this already?" Clay snorts and reaches for his can of beer. "With you, I think I got all the _more_ I can handle, anyway," he mutters and pops the can open.

"You really don't have to, you know," Desmond comments quietly. "You don't have to humour me all the time."

Clay drinks his beer, taking several long, deep gulps before setting the can down with a quiet burp. "Do me a favour and spare me from your self-esteem issues," he says. "I got enough of my own to be dealing with yours on top of them."

"I mean it," Desmond says with a frown.

Clay scoffs at him and reaches out with his left hand. Before Desmond can figure out what he's doing, Clay flicks his finger hard against his forehead, hard enough to actually make a sound.

"You're an idiot," Clay says fondly.

"… _ow_ ," Desmond complains. "What the hell?"

Clay snorts at him, leaning his cheek on his palm again. "I'm not humouring you, Desmond," he says. "I'm really not."


	8. Chapter 8

Clay doesn't have that much fondness for pretty much any of his past. Unlike Desmond, there is no freedom or flight in his past – aside from leaving for college but that was to study and hardly counts. There is no bar, no active nightlife, he didn't find himself in the double-the-speed-of-human-heart bounding of club music or in the flash of disco lights.

To him, there is just the grey bleary meaninglessness of everyday life and all the boring shit that it came with it. The day to day routine of nine-to-five, either seen through his mother before she left, then through his father and the ceaseless boasting-complaining he did about it, and then through himself, through school, through work. The pointless drudgery of life no different from millions of identical meaningless lives. It just had no damn meaning – it didn't then and it has less of a one now, knowing what they do about the future and what's to come.

"Foreman's son finished engineering degree and he'll be pocketing 60k a year – now that's where the _real_ money is," Harold Kaczmarek says while Clay hovers over his shoulder, looking at the back of his father's favourite armchair.

No spotless leather couches here, no polished bronzed brass and perfectly stained hardwood. The furniture of Kaczmarek household is old and faded, flower patterns leftover from before his mother left, grown grey and colourless by time. It's clean, at least, the floors neatly vacuumed and the bookshelves only slightly dusty – his father might be an alcoholic in denial but he's a neat one. He kept his unimpressive household and meaningless life in order.

On the television, the announcer is reading out the lottery numbers.

Harold checks them on the ticket he has and doesn't even sigh when he gets only two numbers right. He just marks them, sets the ticket aside and then waits for the news to roll around. He's never won much, playing the lottery – few thousand one time, which he'd used to buy a new refrigerator and dishwasher, but that was about it. Never a big win. Still, he kept on playing, kept on putting dollars into the tax for poor, never really expecting to win, but hoping.

Hope, Clay thinks, is one of the most vicious drugs humanity can self-produce. Hope that maybe this time you'll get lucky. People throw their last savings on that kind of thing. Throw away their lives.

"You got it?" Clay asks and looks away as his father loses himself to the TV's endless droning.

" _Yeah, I got it_ ," Desmond's voice answers right next to him. " _That's pretty good one – four months from now is not bad. Or do you want to go for another?"_

Clay nods and then concentrates.

Nothing changes, really. Harold is still sitting in his favourite armchair – the time of day is the same. Only difference really is the newspapers on the coffee table and the glass of whiskey on the edge of it. Clay looks down to it and then away, to the television.

The announcer is reading out another set of lottery numbers.

"So how is school?" Harold asks without looking up, marking the numbers down on another ticket. "You should be getting pretty good grades, in that place, right? I suppose it will look better on your resume – so as long as no one takes a good look at what university they actually came from."

Clay doesn't answer – there's no point. He knows how this discussion goes and he doesn't have to go through it for synchronisation or discovery. Instead, he looks at the television until he has seen all of the lottery numbers. Maybe if he doesn't engage with the memories, they will stop trying to play out.

"Waste of money," Harold mutters and throws the ticket away before changing the channel.

"I'm going for another one," Clay says to Desmond, ignoring Harold. "It won't hurt to get as many as we can."

" _Yeah, sure_ ," Desmond agrees quietly. " _Go for it_."

The scene changes. Harold is on phone this time, looking between the television and the ticket as he talks. "Tomorrow? Bill, you know me, I'm always happy to help – but I know the situation you're in, you sure you can pay me overtime? … Jesus, really? Yeah, yeah, actually," Harold stops and then, holding the cell phone against his chest, turns to look at Clay. "You're staying for the weekend right? Bill needs help at the construction site – they've had an accident with the cement mixer, something tipped it over during the night and it's fucked up the foundations."

 _Dad I got homework for the university – if I don't get this paper done on time it will affect my grade,_ Clay thinks, and feels a weird mental vertigo.

"Oh, don't give me that – one grade doesn't matter. No one even looks at your grades once you're done with the school," Harold says. "This is real work, Clay – with real _pay_. And it's about damn time you start contributing, considering the money I'm putting into your tuition…"

Clay sighs and doesn't answer, looking at the TV instead. _It matters to me, dad, if I get good enough grades in this class then maybe…_

"Yeah, Bill, I got someone for you here," Harold says to the phone, ignoring his silence and the dialogue he hadn't bothered to actually speak both. "My son, Clay – he's home for the weekend and he'd be happy to help."

The lottery numbers are flashing on the screen in full and after making sure he's gotten a good eyeful of them, Clay turns away and changes the time.

" _Clay_ ," Desmond says quietly. " _Are you alright_?"

"I'm bored. This is just –" Clay mutters. "This isn't even real and it's so fucking _tiresome_ , all of this. Look at this," he motions around himself at the memory, looking around for Desmond's benefit. "Just look at this!"

" _It looks pretty normal to me, really_ ," Desmond answers. " _What's so wrong with it_?"

"Just – ugh," Clay answers and then runs hands over his face. "It's nothing, this is – it's nothing. All my dad ever did was worth fucking nothing. All the fucking boasting and the talk about money and work and how _Kaczmareks are builders_ and shit – it doesn't matter, none of this matters. It's just fucking _pointless_."

Desmond doesn't say anything for a moment and with a frustrated sigh Clay switches the time again, to another weekend – to another lottery announcement. Luckily this time, Harold doesn't say anything – judging by the books spread across the coffee table, Clay had been working on something for school.

" _You were home often_ ," Desmond comments in his ear. " _Every weekend_?"

"I was a starving student – hated coming back here, but being home meant food I didn't have to pay for and an usable laundry machine that didn't leave my clothing smelling like something had thrown up oil on them," Clay sighs and stares at the TV.

Though he hadn't really hated it – hate is a powerful emotion best reserved for things that actually deserve it. Being home had been tiresome but not properly hateful.

Abstergo was hateful. Glorious, but hateful.

Still, it's not… pleasant, being back, even if it's only in spirit. It's confusing his head, it's making those neurons that still think he's lost his mind fire up and it's messing up his mental timeframe. Clay shuffles through few more weekends at home, few more lottery announcements before the place starts chewing up his brain and he just has to get out of there before he starts throwing himself at the fucking walls.

Desmond injects him with the stimulant without question and Clay struggles back into consciousness, shaking off the partially artificial sleep paralysis and pushing himself to the seated position. Desmond is sitting on a bench beside the bed, laptop in his lap. "Shit," Clay mutters.

"I think we have plenty enough lottery numbers to start with," Desmond says quietly. "If you don't want to look into them anymore."

"Hngh," Clay answers and runs hands over his face. "It's – fine, I can do more. Later. Better to have more options," he says and for a moment just sits there and breathes, head in hands, trying to feel like himself. Whoever that is, these days.

He doesn't even have that traumatic a past. He doesn't have a cult background or the harrowing escape from it, he didn't have to live on the streets or do… whatever it was Desmond had to do to survive which he's too damn embarrassed to share. Clay's past isn't difficult – it's just fucking _mundane_. Why is it so hard to go back to it now? Why does it make him feel a little like scratching his eyes out of his head?

Desmond is quiet, closing the laptop after saving the session and then moving to the bed. "You wanna head out?" he offers. "Have a walk around Monteriggioni – or maybe outside? There are some pretty gardens out there we haven't gone to see yet."

"Monteriggioni is your cure-all for everything," Clay mutters and then looks at him. "It's not for me."

"Okay," Desmond says and shakes his head. "What do you want then, Clay?"

"Fuck if I know," Clay mutters and props his knees up, leaning his elbows on them. "I'm not freaking out, Desmond. I'm just annoyed and on the edge. You don't need to baby me."

"I'm not," Desmond says and looks at him. "I just want to help. You always know what to do and say when I feel shitty, so…"

Clay snorts at that and leans his chin onto his arm. "Well, you're a simple person, it doesn't take much to get you out of your head," he mutters and when Desmond gives him a look he sighs and rolls his eyes. "It's fine. This is nothing, Seventeen, really. Being in a bad mood won't kill me."

"Alright," Desmond says and runs a hand through his hair, looking awkward and uneasy. "Do you… want me to clear off and stop annoying you?"

"… no," Clay mutters.

"Okay," Desmond says slowly. "I guess I'll just… stay here being awkward with you, then."

"Yeah, you do that," Clay says with a snort and looks him over. "For a bartender your people skills are terrible."

"My people skills are excellent," Desmond says and after a moment of hesitation eases onto the bed to sit beside him, reaching for the pile or pamphlets on the bedside table, shuffling through them. Most of them are about Monteriggioni and the Auditore Villa – some are about the surrounding countryside. Desmond really has a one track mind.

"I just feel twitchy," Clay mutters. "Like I'm just sitting around, not doing anything – like we should be doing _something_ and we're just wasting time doing fuck all. I know we're not and I know we have time, but I just feel… useless."

That's what past always made him feel like – like he'd wasted time, like he'd wasted _years worth of time_. Time he could've used to prepare, learn, get stronger, get smarter, anything, _something_ but instead he'd done fuck all. And sure, it wasn't like he could've actually done much, not knowing anything about what was to come, but still…

So many years, wasted.

Desmond says nothing to that for a moment and Clay looks at him, impatient and annoyed. Not that there is much for Desmond to say – what is he going to do, decide to leave Monteriggioni _early?_ Yeah, that's not gonna happen, Clay himself won't allow it, even if Desmond decided that for his well being they had to. Fuck that noise. At least in Monteriggioni _one_ of them is happy.

Desmond stacks the pamphlets and brochures up and sets them aside. "I've been thinking," he says. "We should start planning the Abstergo Tower gig."

Clay blinks. "The what?"

"Blowing up Abstergo Tower in Rome, killing Vidic, that stuff," Desmond clarifies and looks at him. "Now that the Truth is ready and we've got things prepared for the money stuff… We should start planning the attack, gathering up resources, stuff we need to make it happen. Explosives and stuff."

For a moment, the words don't even make sense. Then Clay lifts his head and stares at him. "Are you serious right now?"

Desmond shrugs. "You wanted to destroy the place, right?" he asks.

"I was – mostly kidding," Clay tells him slowly.

"I'm not," Desmond says simply.

Clay swallows. Desmond fucking Miles, ladies and gentlemen – doesn't know how to deal people who are feeling irritated but is perfectly willing to blow up buildings for them. What the fuck. "That… would probably have consequences," Clay says slowly, a little wide eyed now. "Big ones."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees and shrugs again. "But the world will be better off without the place. And definitely better off without Vidic."

And it will make Clay feel better, which Desmond doesn't say but it's pretty damn obvious on his face.

"And here I thought I was the insane one," Clay mutters and prods at his shoulder, just to make sure he's real. He feels solid, even gives Clay an annoyed look at the poking. "You're fucking unreal," Clay tells him and shakes his head. "Yeah, let's do it."

* * *

 

Clay had dreamed of destroying the Abstergo Tower. He'd imagined it with the same vivid detail he'd imagined his own upcoming suicide,  planning it down to last minuscule detail, coming up with several scenarios, countermeasures for potential setbacks, fail-safes. He has the building plans downloaded into his mind even now and within them, he spent countless nights finding flaws, fault lines, weak points.

It had been a perverse sort of fantasy most of the time – he'd always imagined the tower blowing up or collapsing or just shaking apart with him inside it. Fuck, if he could've managed it, that would be been his method of choice – suicide by blowing up the fucking building, taking down everyone who worked within with him. It would've been magnificent.

It was impossible though. He was stuck close to the top floor and never getting out. So he died bleeding all over the walls, doing his best to send a message to a guy he didn't know but hated anyway. And even that turned out pointless because Desmond couldn't figure out any of it.

Still, he'd hoped that maybe one day somehow someone might stumble into those plans – maybe even the prophesied messiah himself since he was so damn special – who would make use of them. Abstergo Tower had to go down one say, right? Assassins had to destroy it one day… right?

Funny how it's working out now.

"There are three ways," Clay says while recreating his feverish plans with the Truth – and holy shit doesn't it make things so much simpler when he can just show Desmond what he's thinking, literally. "The Tower has two major support structures. These eight pillars here – and this central column, which runs right through the center of the building."

The skeletal model of Abstergo Tower spins on the screens, showing the enormous beams of metal that run through the foundations and deep into the earth. Desmond leans in, narrowing his eyes.

"Take out either the main column or the pillars, and the building will collapse into itself," Clay says. "The individual pillars will take fewer explosives to take out – but you would need to take out at least six of them. The central column in the hand would take a much bigger blast,  and so a bigger explosive."

"How big?" Desmond asks thoughtfully.

"Too big to carry. We're talking missile level of big," Clay admits.

"Hmm. You said there are three ways," Desmond then points out. "What's the third?"

Clay reaches under the Truth headset to scratch at his itching forehead. "There's a self-destruct, " he says. "Abstergo really doesn't want people to see what's going on in the Tower after all. But you need a biometrics and voice print to activate it and even I can't hack the system. Trust me – I tried."

Desmond's eyes grow dark at that and he nods slowly. "So our safest bet would be destroying the pillars," he says. "Sneaking eight bombs onto a heavily guarded building without anyone being the wiser. Hmm."

"Piece of cake, right?" Clay offers and then turns to the screens. "There are ways to get into the building undetected. Abstergo is good and they got the place Assassin-proofed – but I am better. I've been in those systems – I know where the blind spots are."

Desmond says nothing for a moment, eying the designs on the screen. Then he looks at Clay. "Do you think we can do this?" he asks. "With these plans? Just get in, plant the explosives and be done, just like that?"

"We'll need the explosives first," Clay says, and looks at the designs. They are very detailed and he even has the routes through the building blind spots all plotted out. It's a good map. If it was just him, though, he wouldn't be able to make use of it. Even at his prime he couldn't and he's got none of that training now.

Desmond though… Clay has seen him break into places now. They'd been only barely guarded places – especially when compared to the Abstergo Tower – but it had still been pretty damn incredible. Desmond is on his own level of capable.

"I doubt it will be that easy, " Clay says after a moment. "But yeah."

Desmond nods and takes a deep breath. "Okay. Where are we going to get the explosives, then?"

"Well, that's the fun part," Clay says and throws him a grin. "Abstergo. They have other facilities in Italy and one of them, supposedly a warehouse, is actually the undercover end of the world type bunker – packed full of shit. Explosives, among other things."

Desmond blinks. "Wait, Abstergo knows the end of the world is coming?" he asks sharply.

"Not yet – but for a while back in the sixties and seventies they seriously contemplated sparking another World War," Clay says and shrugs. "They set up bunkers all over the world back then, just in case it came down to it and they had to deal with the nuclear fallout and then collapse of civilisations and whatever. They still keep them stocked with enough firepower to start a small war – several small wars even, all over the place. Take that as you will."

Desmond stares at him for a moment in complete silence. Then he shudders and looks away. "Right," he says. "So robbing Abstergo in order to blow up Abstergo. Great."

* * *

 

It's all a bit different from breaking into a hospital or mere warehouse or even a government facility. Abstergo is a very different beast, in terms of security and threat level, really. Clay would know – he'd broken into several Abstergo facilities before walking up to one semi-willingly and never leaving again – and no matter how skilled Desmond is…

They can joke about it all they want, make light of it – but the matter of fact is… Desmond could die.

"I love how it's given that I'm going alone," Desmond mutters, though throwing Clay a wry smile to show he's not actually pissed off about it.

"Well, I could come with you and then fuck up because I don't have a highly trained assassin body to run around in and then we'd both get killed," Clay says, though watching him warily. "You'll have a much better luck of it on your own, I'm afraid. That's what you get, for being you."

"Thanks," Desmond mutters, bumping his shoulder in half objection with his own. "You ass."

"Mmhmm," Clay agrees and leans into him, resting his chin on Desmond's shoulder. He won't insult the guy by saying something as asinine as _you don't have to do this_ because that's so beyond the point here that it's not even in the same stratosphere. But still… "I will kill you myself if you get yourself killed, Seventeen," he mutters and bites onto the fabric of Desmond's stupid hoodie to keep himself from saying anything else.

"Aww, Sixteen. My anti-guardian angel," Desmond says and leans his cheek against his hair. "If I do get myself killed, though, you got all the stuff you need, right?" he says. "The investment plan, the lottery numbers. You head back to the US, make use of them. Turn history around."

"I'll do none of it just to mess with you," Clay mutters and squeezes his eyes shut. Desmond jostles him with an elbow and he sighs. "Yeah, yeah, I do. Screw you."

"Good," Desmond says quietly and they're silent for a while, leaning into each other. "Maybe we should have gotten the Apple," he mutters then and grinds his forehead lightly against Clay's hair. "Do you think we should've gotten the Apple?"

Clay frowns without opening his eyes and then sighs. "No," he mutters. "I don't think I'm ready to face her. Are you?"

"Fuck no," Desmond admits.

"It's not going anywhere – we're still the only ones who know where it is. Best leave it, for now."

"Right," Desmond says and takes a deep breath. "Well, you know where it is and how to get it. Hopefully, if it comes down to it, you'll be better prepared."

Clay scoffs at that and then tilts his chin up to look at him. Desmond's face is right there, pressed against his – Jesus they're so co-dependent it's not even funny, is it? They're _this close_ to sharing a fucking psychosis here. "I'm serious, if you die I will fucking resurrect you to kill you again. There's probably a way; I'll figure it out and do it."

Desmond grins and that and then lifts a hand to his cheek. "You sap," he says, brushing his thumb down the line of Clay's cheek, where his grimace makes a crease. For a moment it looks like he might, and Clay maybe holds his breath a little… but he doesn't, just clasps him by the back of his head and sighs, holding him close.

"So," Desmond says. "I'll head to the warehouse, grab the stuff, and then head straight to the Tower?"

"Well not straight to it, don't leave a straight set of tracks or anything, but yeah – we’ll have a pretty brief window of opportunity between the warehouse and the Tower. They'll go on high alert when the theft is discovered – getting in will be harder after, so the sooner the better," Clay says and nudges Desmond's forehead with his own. "Granted nothing goes wrong, of course. And it better _not_."

"No promises," Desmond says and closes his eyes. Clay watches his face, trying to both read it and memorise it – this close, he can almost _hear_ Desmond's thoughts.

Not yet, he's thinking, not yet, can't yet, it will just distract them now – not _yet_. He can wait. They'd have time later.

Yeah, Clay knows pretty well how those thoughts tend to go. He also knows how much it fucking hurts when you're standing on the other side of them – and all the opportunities lie bleeding on the floor with knives of _too damn late_ stuck in their guts. One would think Desmond knows too, what with Lucy and all, but… just screw that noise.

"Fuck you," Clay mutters, grabs Desmond by the jaw and tilts his chin to a kiss.

It's not much of a kiss, at first, just a mash of mouth on mouth, neither elegant nor gentle. Desmond inhales sharply at it, almost gasping, both leaning into it and away from it simultaneously, trying to disengage their bodies while keeping their lips in contact. And how like him, the stupid idiot, to reach for something while trying to back away from it at the same time.

Clay snarls impatiently at him, grabs his cheeks with both hands, and keeps him close, tilting their heads. He can feel Desmond's stubble on his cheeks, on his upper lip – it's still sparse and soft, but it's there, rasping faintly under his thumbs as he brushes them up along Desmond's glorious cheekbones. Desmond's lips, fuller than his own and far less chapped, quiver and close – and then open in a sigh and then they're kissing.

And holy shit can Desmond Miles _kiss_.

It feels like how movie kisses look like – but never actually feel like. Kisses like that are awkward as hell in real life, Clay's always found – they're messy and wet and embarrassing and never even nearly as well choreographed in reality. In reality, someone always ends up with bitten lips and drool all over their face and it's just a mess. It never feels as good as it looks on the screen.

Desmond kisses like that, pressing in, tasting, withdrawing, shifting angle and going in again, deep and luxurious and just so fucking _skillful_ that it's all Clay can do to try and keep up. And somehow it's not awkward, it's not awkward at all. Jesus Christ, his _lips_ …

"Why the fuck are you perfect at fucking everything," Clay grumbles once Desmond releases him, his lips quivering, tingling – already reaching for _more_.

Desmond breathes a warm gust of air against his wet lips and smiles, awkward and shaky. "I'm really not," he mutters, his hand on Clay's neck, thumb brushing up the tendon to the edge of Clay's jaw and down again. "You do that again and I'm not going to be able to leave."

Clay grunts at that and then bows his head back down and to Desmond's shoulder. Fuck, he thinks and runs his hands blindly up to Desmond's short hair and down the back of his neck, then up to his ears and to his hair again, memorising the shape of him. He's warm and firm, Clay can feel the muscles of his neck and shoulders with each pass, and he wants to know all of them, trace them down, _taste_ them.

He's not even gay, for fuck's sake, and he still kind of wants to throw Desmond down onto the bed and keep him there.

"Clay," Desmond says shakily, his lips on Clay's temple, brushing against his earlobe. "I – should get going. I'm going to miss the bus."

For a moment Clay teeters on the edge. This isn't exactly life or death mission – this is all self-inflicted, on all fucking sides. They could push it back. He could keep Desmond here for another day, another night. They could do the Abstergo thing later. They could push it all back a bit, and…

Fuck, Clay thinks and lets his hands drop. "I'm serious about you getting yourself killed. _Don't_ ," he grumbles and looks away. It'll be easier to let Desmond go if he doesn't look.

Desmond's hand hesitates on his neck and then it lifts. Clay feels the separation of it down to his fucking atoms, as each point of contact disengages – weight and warmth of Desmond's arm on his chest, his palm on his skin, then his fingers, thump first, then little finger, forefinger… Desmond's middle finger traces down his chin and Clay almost winces when it too detaches, leaving him swaying on where he sits, unanchored.

Silent, Desmond collects his backpack by the door and Clay contemplates not looking, keeping his eyes on the bedspreads and just letting him leave. But then he thinks - what if it's the last look he'll get?

He looks up just in time to see Desmond shouldering the backpack and slipping out of the room without a backward glance, the door closing and locking in his wake.

* * *

 

They've planned it all down to last possible detail. Desmond knows several routes through the bunker, right past the guards and security cameras and motion sensors and right into the armoury. Clay had drilled him on them himself and he knows he memorised them. And once Desmond gets to the site, Clay is right there with him, behind every security camera and on every radio feed – able to guide him through the rest.

Their plan is perfect, or as perfect as they can get it at this point.

But this really isn't just a jaunt into some random public hospital with the barely token security system – this is literal enemy ground, and the guards within it will be all carrying guns. Something Desmond very much isn't – he barely has a knife.

This is all a terrible idea, Clay thinks, running his hands shakily through his hair, but it's too late now – Desmond is already on site, barely a shadow in a camera feed as he climbs the building next to the warehouse to use it to vault over the electric fence right where Clay had pointed the gap out to him.

Nine foot drop from the side of the building, over the fence and to the ground – Desmond takes it on a smooth, impact reducing roll and then he's gone from the view again, never making it to the recording at all, as Clay manipulates the cameras and loops their feeds.

"Guards to the left of you – two of them," Clay says quietly.

Desmond doesn't answer – the guards move in on Desmond's position at a slow pace, not spotting a thing. A moment later, Desmond is a shadow on another camera, waiting for the guards to pass out of view before moving in on the side door into the warehouse.

"Now," Clay says, once the path is clear, killing the motion sensors for a moment. Desmond rushes in, makes to the door, and grabs his lock picks. The eleven seconds it takes him to break through the lock are _grueling_ but he makes it. The door opens in front of him and closes after him, and Clay re-engages the motion sensors, killing the loop on the camera. The less of them he introduces, the harder it will be to spot their tampering.

So far so good.

Inside the warehouse is actually a warehouse – outwardly anyway. It even stores things for Abstergo, holding within it crates upon crates of ridiculously expensive medicine. While Clay loops and fixes the time stamp on the interior cameras, Desmond moves in between the crates and then climbs on top of them to avoid the few people patrolling the interior, climbing up, up, and out of view and into the rafters.

" _Still good_?" Desmond asks quietly.

"Still good," Clay says with a sigh. "There are four guards inside, they're patrolling the place in circles more or less – and there's the fifth one on a control booth watching the cameras, but I've got that covered. You can move in."

" _Roger that_ ," Desmond says and does just that – unseen by the cameras and well outside the range of any motion detectors. Clay waits tensely, biting his lip.

There are three ways down to the bunker below – an elevator, a staircase, and a maintenance shaft which also works as an escape route. Desmond would be taking the latter one, obviously, as it wasn't being watched. It would take getting the explosives out difficult, though – it would be a tight fit.

Desmond grunts in the audio, there is a quiet clunk of something metallic open and then the Quality of the static on the headpiece changes. " _See you on the other side, Clay,_ " Desmond whispers.

And then, the audio sputters and turns to static.

Clay stares at the screens in front of him for a moment and then runs shaky hands through his hair before leaning in. The bunker itself is nearly two hundred feet below ground – it's a long, slow, _torturous_ climb down, no doubt. At least it is for Clay, now cut off from even the barest hint of Desmond's voice, as radio signals don't exactly reach that far below ground.

"We better fucking not, you son of a bitch," Clay mutters and chews at his thumbnail, waiting for the cameras to pick Desmond up again. It takes fucking over.

Then, on a very faintly lit corridor shown through a very shitty camera feed, a maintenance hatch is opened and Desmond eases out, crouching on the floor to close the hatch. Then, casting a hooded glance up at the camera, he waves a hand and moves on.

There are only three guards in the bunker itself – it hasn't seen any action in well over twenty-five years now, so it's barely on a skeleton crew. Even those guards are barely paying attention – one of them is reading a book, another is watching television. The last one, however, is walking rounds in the corridor, and the only warning Desmond has of them is the sound of their footsteps, if there are any, in the winding corridors of the fallout shelter.

And Clay can do is watch, helpless and useless, behind the screen hundreds of miles away. Fuck. In the bunker there aren't that many places to hide either, the corridors are cramped and rooms tightly locked and there are no handy rafters to climb on, or boxes to hide behind – just open, empty corridors.

The first time the roaming guard walks past Desmond, Clay almost bites the tip of his thumb open as he waits with bated breath for the worst. Desmond waits, pressed against a wall, his face shadowed and grainy in the camera, too blurry to make out his expression.

The guard moves on, and a moment later so does Desmond, quick and half crouched as he hurries on and towards the armoury.

The armoury has a keypad with number lock – but for that Desmond doesn't even need a lockpick. It takes him a couple of tries to get the number sequence right, but he does – and then he slips in and out of view. There is no cameras in the armoury – beyond the door, he's on his own and all Clay can do is hope he will get what they need.

Desmond's backpack is a lot fuller when he steps out again, closing the armoury door carefully. Then he pauses there, tilting his head, listening. Quickly Clay shuffles through the camera feeds – there. The security guard has changed routes – and is now walking down the same corridor Desmond had used.

"Come on," Clay mutters, staring at Desmond hard through the camera. "I taught you the layout, you know which way to go, just fucking do it…"

Desmond turns and heads another way – the _right_ way much to Clay's relief. Behind him the security guard looks around in the empty corridor, looking as if he's listening to something. For a moment it looks like the guy might head back the same way Desmond had gone – but in the end, he turns away.

Clay releases a breath, shuddering, but his heart doesn't stop pounding like a drum until Desmond is back in the chute, out of sight – and finally, within radio range again.

" _That went well_ ," Desmond says, breathless.

"Fuck you," Clay answers and runs a shaky hand over his mouth. "Just get out of there."

Desmond huffs a laugh and then he's back in camera view – and out of it again, moving fast and silent despite the several pounds of explosives he has packed on his back. And isn't that a new and exciting level of danger, right there – Desmond carrying explosives around unprotected while there are guys with guns nearby.

Clay's knee bounces nervously as Desmond makes his way from inside the warehouse, to the top of it where the cameras can't see him. He's out of view for a good minute or so before he lands with a heavy thud on the street outside – he vaulted his way over the electric fence with the use of a light pole.

Rolling with _several pounds of explosives on his back_.

"You mad bastard," Clay groans at him. "Mind the fucking backpack."

" _It's fine_ ," Desmond says but checks the backpack anyway. " _See, all good and non-explody. So far anyway. How's the feed?_ "

Clay mutters a curse and checks it, disengaging the loops he started and letting the recordings resume naturally. "I think I got it all, but the faster you move, the better. They check inventory daily – at some point, someone is going to notice. And we've got only two hours of darkness left."

" _Right. Next up, Abstergo Tower_ ," Desmond says and turns to head to the shadows and away from the warehouse, disappearing out of camera view, and thus out of Clay's sights again. " _It'll be a piece of cake_."

He just had to say that, didn't he?


	9. Chapter 9

The last time Desmond had… been to Abstergo Tower, he'd walked in through the front door. That time he'd been invited in, more or less, and though there'd been security guards in his way, the way had been laid out for him, straight from the front door all the way up to Vidic's office. It had been all poetic and shit too, Vidic keeping his dad hostage in the same place where he'd kept Desmond – and Clay, once upon a time – prisoner. Ending up where they'd started.

Later – in the very little time he had left afterwards – he figured that Vidic was probably thinking that he'd end up with two valuable prisoners at the end of it. Desmond with his ancestry and William Miles, the Mentor of the Assassins Brotherhood. Two very fat plums to serve on a silver platter to his higher-ups. It hadn't turned out that way, of course, but if it had…

Well, they'd all ended up dead, so there's that.

In either case, that's not the way Desmond can enter the Abstergo Tower this time – too many sensors in the front, too many scanners, too many guards. A hooded guy with a backpack full of bombs would be noticed.

 _"You can enter through the underground,"_ Clay says. _"Through the sewer. It's not going to be pleasant, but…"_

"Alright, walk me through it," Desmond says, and Clay guides him into the parking lot of a mall not terribly close but close enough that Desmond can drop down into the sewers from there and then make his way under Abstergo Tower.

 _"I'm in Abstergo's systems now – and oh boy aren't they different,"_ Clay mutters. _"They got the benefit of First Civilisation technology on their side, so their computers are about five years ahead of everyone else's – which is why Assassins could never hack them, always had to go in manually and break into real physical computers. But I am very good."_

"I don't doubt it," Desmond says, peering ahead in the shadowed sewers and keeping an ear about for any errant sounds. "Found anything interesting?"

 _"Depends on how you define interesting,"_ Clay answers. _"Vidic's not in the premises right now, but there's good chance he's going to be very soon. He's got another subject, right in our bedroom. That's just lovely, isn't it?"_

Desmond hesitates at that, pressing his lips together.

 _"Subject Nine, currently. A woman,"_ Clay says. _"Not much on her genealogy, they're still going through it – some promising European leads, Middle Eastern – hmmm… Might be another relative of yours – they've marked the 12th century as an especial point of interest."_

"… Altaïr?" Desmond murmurs, not sure he wants to actually know.

 _"Looks like,"_ Clay says. _"Don't it take too much into the heart, though – we're related too, remember, very distantly through Ezio? Chances are that whoever this lady is, you share one of Altaïr's kids maybe in your genetic history but that's it. Genes get spread so far in few hundred years, so – we all have hundreds of thousands of cousins."_

Desmond makes a face. All things considered and regardless of how distant… he really doesn't want to be thinking of _Clay_ and _related_ in the same sentence, right now. "Do you think we could help her, whoever it is?" Desmond asks. "Help her escape?"

Clay doesn't say anything for a moment. _"Well… She is where you're headed,"_ Clay says. _"Come morning Vidic's going to be all over her. And the Animus – good god that's just embarrassing. Animus 1.034. Looks awkward as hell."_

"I bet," Desmond mutters

 _"It's a complication,"_ Clay says then. _"Trying to help someone escape."_

"It's another Subject," Desmond says simply. Could Clay really just _leave_ another Subject there, to go through what they had? Desmond hadn't had it nearly as bad as Clay had, but they both know it goes. They know how it will end up, without intervention.

Clay doesn't say anything for a moment. _"Like I said, it's probably where you're headed,"_ Clay then says on the headset. _"Plant the bombs first."_

"Roger that," Desmond says and looks up a ladder leading to a manhole cover. "This is it?"

 _"Close enough. Hang on, I'll check the area for you,"_ Clay says and then, a moment later, _"There's a car parked right on top of it. Do you think you could get out under it?"_

"As long as there's nothing pinning the lid down," Desmond says and then goes to climb up. "Let's find out, shall we?"

It's a squeeze, definitely – and if this was 2012, Desmond definitely wouldn't have been able to manage it. 2003 Desmond is a little smaller and lot more limber though. Taking off the backpack and pushing it out ahead of him, Desmond squirms out after it, crawling onto his belly under the car. He ends up scraping the back of his jacket on to something, probably getting it all dirty, but he gets out.

 _"Hold and stay silent,"_ Clay says in his ear. _"There's a guard. I'll tell you when you can go – probably best if you roll under another car. The access chute to the maintenance tunnels is to the left side of the car – the far side wall."_

Desmond doesn't answer, easing the backpack to a place where he can easily drag it with him as he goes from under one car to under another.

 _"Go,"_ Clay says and Desmond goes.

Making his way through the parking lot like that is something of a nuisance, but after a few underbellies of cars, Desmond is far enough to the side to get out from under them. While Clay keeps an eye on the security cameras and makes sure Desmond is out from the security guard's view, Desmond breaks into the maintenance levels.

 _"I can't believe they call this place the_ Tower _,"_ Clay mutters in his ear. _"It has just six floors and three basement levels. It's nothing. The Abstergo HQ in New York has forty-four."_

"I guess they were going for inconspicuous?" Desmond muses while hurrying down the stairs.

 _"Tch,"_ Clay answers. _"All things considered, the Animus Project is still a very minor one in their operations – the pharmaceutical branch has been running since the seventies, Animus project wasn't even thought up until the eighties. It's gotten them the results – but not profit. No profit, no budget."_

"Huh," Desmond answers and presses against a closed door. "All clear?"

 _"All clear,"_ Clay answers, and Desmond eases through.

"How would you even profit from the Animus?" Desmond muses and looks around. It's an all concrete corridor, with pipes and stuff running along the walls – apparently, the building's utilities run through the place, which makes sense, it being the maintenance area and all that… "The most you can do is historical treasure hunts."

 _"Turn it into a video game maybe?"_ Clay suggests. _"It basically operates like VR game anyway, the way the simulations run. Right, go straight that corridor until you see a pillar – it should be slightly to the left of you."_

Desmond nods and goes forward warily, listening for any sounds. "Am I alone in here?"

_"Yes, but they have patrols coming in every other hour. And then there are the sensors and the cameras, but I got those covered – wave for me?"_

Desmond glances around and then waves at the camera blinking a red light at him. Then he turns to the support pillar – a great big hunk of metal standing in the middle of a small room built around it. "Time to plant some bombs, then," he murmurs and swings the backpack down from his shoulder. "Any specific spot I should plant these?"

 _"As close to the middle as possible would be the best, but that'd make them easier to spot,"_ Clay admits. _"Just put them where ever you think no one will notice them."_

Desmond nods and quickly scans through the explosives he got. They're all plastic explosives, easiest to plant and hide, really. Desmond eases one eight of the explosives out and then looks over the pillar. Near the top, he thinks, where hopefully any potential guards won't look.

Getting it there takes some awkward climbing and he ends up having to hug the pillar with his knees to hold himself up enough to plant the charges, but he manages.

 _"Jesus your thigh muscles must be made of_ rock _,"_ Clay mutters in his ear. _"I bet you could break a melon between your knees."_

"Really not the time, Sixteen," Desmond says through the wires stuck to his mouth and molds the plastic into the corner between the support pillar and the ceiling before wiring in the detonator. After checking that it's connected to the remote he has, Desmond drops down to the floor and grabs the back. "What way next?"

 _"Straight and then left when the corridor turns,"_ Clay answers.

He goes through four of the charges before Clay warns him that it's time for the guard change – and there's a patrol coming his way. _"It's six am,"_ Clay says. _"It'll take about fifteen minutes before the night shift is out of here and then you'll have just the morning shift to deal with."_

Desmond breathes in and out and then finds himself a place to hide. Thankfully there are plenty of those in the maintenance levels – rooms full of boilers and waste treatment units and generators, all sorts of shadows to hide in. "What's my window of opportunity?" Desmond asks, crouching down and resting his hands on his knees. "To plant the rest of the charges and get to Subject Nine?"

Clay hesitates. _"That depends. Two hours and the civilians will start coming in for their day shift at the labs and offices. Right now there's just the guards and skeleton crew of assistant watching ongoing experiments."_

Desmond breathes in and out and closes his eyes. "Two hours then," he murmurs. "I can do this in two hours."

 _"Vidic's not there yet,"_ Clay comments.

Desmond presses his lips together and nods, though Clay probably can't see him where he is, hiding in the shadows. "Let's hope he'll be coming in early then," he murmurs. "Tell me when the guard is out of the basement so that I can finish this."

It takes about ten minutes and then Clay gives him go-ahead. While above in the Tower itself the guard changes and morning shift take their places on patrols and security booths, Desmond runs around in the maintenance level planting his bombs and detonators, hooking them into the controller. If the thing works like it should and hopefully it would… he could detonate all charges all at once, or one at the time, as need demanded.

"I expected there to be more guards here," Desmond admits while planting the last explosive. His knees are not enjoying the task of hugging the damn pillars at this point – thank god he's done.

 _"Funnily enough they expect people to go for the upper floors – where all the priceless data is,"_ Clay answers. _"And they are burdened with glorious overconfidence when it comes to their technology – and their tech is telling them everything is a-OK in the basement."_

"Thank you for that," Desmond says and then drops down with a relief, checking the remote activator and then pushing it to his hoodie pocket. "Right, now, let's go see Subject Nine –"

 _"Before that, I think – aha,"_ Clay says and his voice turns gleeful. _"Our good Doctor Vidic just entered the building. A car dropped him in the front – he just walked in through the front doors."_

Desmond bows his head a little. "I guess we're in luck," he says and checks his knife, taking it out and testing the edge. It's not the knife he'd used last time, but it fits his hand well enough and has a comforting heft to it. "Let's go say hello to the Doc, then."

* * *

 

It's weirdly, almost perversely nostalgic to make his way through the Abstergo Tower. It's easier this time – there are no guards after him, Vidic isn't egging him on over the speaker systems and there isn't a barely-sane assassin after him. Under Clay's careful guidance, Desmond makes his way up without anyone being the wiser – though it also helps that the tower is still mostly empty, employees not having come in yet.

It's different too, though.

The hall which has, in future, been full of Animi is now full of different sort of machinery. Cooling systems.

 _"The Animus overheats like a mother fucker,"_ Clay tells him. _"They haven't yet figured out the proper processors. They have the edge with First Civilisation technology, but alas, they don't have the components down yet. So they have highly futuristic supercomputers… which turn any room they're in into ovens. So, they need a place to cool them down."_

"And a lot of ACs to do it, huh," Desmond mutters, peering down on them from the rafters. The whole room is on a blast of frosty air – and still, the machinery running through it breathe hot air. It's a weird chaotic mess of temperatures, cold air coming from the sides while the banks of supercomputers below just radiate heat. "How many Animus do they have running?"

 _"That's the fun thing – just the one,"_ Clay says almost gleefully. _"Isn't it just wonderful? It takes hell of a lot of processing power to manage people's memories, you know. And they don't have the proper processors for it quite down yet."_

Desmond says nothing for a moment, crouching down on the metal strut. Then he looks up, to the window showing the level where they'd be kept – the sixth floor, the higher-most floor. The floor where Vidic's office was, where the Animus was – where their _bedroom_ was. "Vidic's in there," Desmond says.

_"Mm-hmm."_

"And the Subject?"

_"He's taking great pleasure waking her up."_

"Ugh," Desmond answers to that and shudders – remembering the times he'd woken up with Vidic standing over him. Not something he'd wish upon _anyone_ , really. "And guards?" he asks warily and looks down. There's four down there, walking around the supercomputers – and he'd seen at least one through the windows.

 _"Six,"_ Clay says. _"And two more stationed in Animus chamber – all armed with stun batons, but no firearms. Apparently, Subject Nine is on the violent side – and they don't want to risk giving her a gun."_

"Sounds like our kind of woman," Desmond muses. "What are the chances of me getting at Vidic undetected?"

Clay doesn't say anything for a moment. _"Not very likely,"_ he admits begrudgingly. _"Not with the patrol routes they're taking – and there's no place to hide bodies if you end up running into trouble."_

Desmond doesn't answer at first, thinking about it. Last time the only reason he'd ever gotten out was because Lucy had orchestrated the whole thing and the opposition had been token one at best. The other time… it had kind of been the same thing, people had pretty much just let him through. Here… here it's only thanks to Clay, the early hour and the fact that no one's expecting this that's gotten him this far.

"I think I need a distraction," Desmond says and braces his hands against the metal under his feet. "You said I needed to destroy at least six pillars to bring the building down, right?"

 _"It's better if you get all of them,"_ Clay says. _"But six will definitely destabilise the place irreversibly."_

"What will happen if I blow just one of them?"

Clay doesn't answer immediately. _"If you want to trigger an alarm, I can do it remotely,"_ he offers.

"Alarms triggered with no visible reason tend to make people hesitate," Desmond says and takes out the remote control. "Unless there's visible cause, people are more likely to think it's a fluke. If there's an explosion coming with it…"

Clay hums in answer. _"Trigger the left middle one, the one closest to the doors,"_ he says then. _"You marked down which button is for which explosive right? If you trigger that one, there's a chance it will collapse part of that corridor, keep people from getting in to dismantle the rest of the explosives."_

"Roger that," Desmond says and flicks the cover from the remote open. "Get ready to hit that alarm for me if it doesn't go off on automatic," he says and holds his finger at the ready. "Let's clear the building."

 _"Just tell me when,"_ Clay says, his voice gleeful and tense.

"Three," Desmond says and presses down. "Two…"

There's no audible boom – so many floors up, the explosion is too far below ground for the noise to reach through all the floors and levels of concrete. But there is a very discernible tremor as the whole building shakes underneath, Desmond has to grab a hold on the metal support to keep himself from falling. Around him, the other supports shake and tremble, and somewhere a bit of mortar rains from a wall.

A moment later, the alarm starts ringing all around him, high pitched and deafening.

The reaction from the guards is at first confusion – and then action. They reach for their walkie-talkies to demand reports and then run towards the exists – two heading to the doors leading to where Desmond needs to go. And, much to Desmond's satisfaction, they leave them open.

Desmond swings down from the rafters and lands on top of one of the supercomputers. It feels immediately hot under the soles of his shoes, and hurriedly he jumps off it and to another one, racing over the tops of them towards the doors.

 _"They're trying to get Vidic to evacuate,"_ Clay says. _"Two guards in the corridors – go now and you might be able to take them."_

Desmond drops into action mode, his mind clearing, his breathing going perfectly even. He's down on the floor and then through the doors just as the lighting inside the building changes – going from natural lighting to red hued alarm lights.

An automated female voice starts talking in the speakers then, droning in soothing monotone, _"Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please,"_ she says. _"An emergency has been detected within the facility. For your safety, please evacuate in an orderly fashion. The emerging exits have been marked with red lights – follow the red lights and you will make it to safety in no time. Please follow the instructions. Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please…"_

There are two guards ahead of Desmond in the corridor, grabbing their stun batons and waiting nervously for something – for Vidic to come so that they can evacuate him? Or for the Subject? It doesn't matter – under the cover of the noise, Desmond steals his way behind them, catching the first under the ribs with his knife before he knows any better, and as the other turns in alarm, Desmond yanks his knife out and slices it smoothly through the other guard's neck.

 _"Nice,"_ Clay says in his ear. _"Left and left again and then up the stairs."_

"Not the elevator?" Desmond asks.

_"Fire alarms disable them for security reasons – go for the stairs. Be careful though, there's a guard there."_

Not for long – Desmond runs down the corridors and then finds the stairs, taking them on two at a time. The guard is standing over them, waiting just like the previous two had – waiting to evacuate the VIP and his unwilling guest, probably. Desmond pulls the man into the stairwell before he's any wiser, dragging the man back into his knife and then thrusting him off it and down the stairs.

Clay lets out a half appreciative, half wincing hiss. _"Another guard to the right – grab his key card as you go."_

This guard spots Desmond, looking confused for a split of a second before he spots the blood on Desmond's knife and then he grabs his baton – but it's too late. Desmond ducks under the swipe the man makes at him, and then stabs him through the jacket and into his belly. The stun baton falls and soon, so does the man.

 _"Four guards left – all are with Vidic,"_ Clay reports to him.

"What is he doing?" Desmond asks while grabbing the keycard off the last guard, flipping it in his fingers and then wiping the blood off.

 _"Backing up data while the guards are trying to subdue Nine. She's not making it easy for them,"_ Clay says, and then hisses out a breath. _"That's gotta hurt."_

Desmond keys the door open and then peers inside. It's the same room he'd been kept in, but it's… different. When he'd been there, there had been banks of computers on the sides, sure, but they'd been sleek, quiet things. Here they're whirring monstrosities that take half of the room, and the Animus itself – if it _is_ the Animus – looks even more like something from a sci-fi movie.

It's a red chair, like dentist chair mixed in with a high tech _throne_ with enormous… _thing_ hovering over it. The sensor relay – it's more like a roof than a headset. On the armrests of the Animus throne, there are straps for binding the Subject's wrists in – and judging by the looks of it, there are straps to put around the chest, waist and legs too.

"Doctor, we need to go," one of the security guards shouts over the blaring of the alarm. "They report the explosion was in the sub-levels – someone is trying to take the entire building down. If there are more bombs down there, the building could collapse any moment!"

"This data is invaluable and worth more than any of your lives," Vidic snaps, working on a terminal attached to the monstrosity of an Animus. "Go and secure the subject – knock her out if you must, but don't harm her, I need her brain."

The guard hesitates, glancing between Vidic and the door where Desmond quickly ducks out of view. Then the guard goes, heading to the bedroom where Desmond can hear fighting happening.

Well, he couldn't have asked for a better opportunity, could he?

Desmond takes a breath, turns the knife in his hand and then ducks in. Vidic doesn't even notice, too busy with his data, snapping, "And get someone to turn that god awful noise down!" after the guard. "I can't think in this damn –"

Desmond sneaks behind him and puts the knife to his throat.

Last time he'd used the Apple of Eden. It had been… something, to use the same thing Vidic so desperately wanted to kill him; to use the very mechanism for controlling people's minds that Abstergo was after to control the minds of Vidic's underlings to take him out. It hadn't been very gratifying though. It hadn't been satisfying. It hadn't felt particularly good.

It had only felt hollow afterwards – in the end, Desmond hadn't been sure if it was really him who did the deed, or if it was… someone else. If it was the Apple, making him. He'd tried not to think about it too much – tried not to think about any of it. It just made him uneasy – not because of the kill itself, but the method he used to accomplish it.

Now, it doesn't feel like anything. Living through the lives of so many murderers made death cheap, which is just mildly psychopathic of him, but there it is. Ezio alone had killed thousands of people. Altaïr had been more careful but he had death count easily in the hundreds. Add to that Connor and Haytham with his coldly frank way of looking at death and you get the fucked up worldview of Desmond Miles. Death just doesn't impact him the way it probably should.

Vidic falls, and Desmond doesn't feel anything.

Clay, obviously, feels something. His breath shudders in the headset as he exhales slowly. _"Thank you,"_ he murmurs shakily. _"Thank you."_

Desmond says nothing, turning to the computer instead to check what Vidic was trying to pack up.

On the screen, there is a file of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, with a somewhat grainy picture of his hooded face, a faint, crooked smile crossing his scarred lips. Desmond blinks at it with confusion and then someone shouts – in the bedroom, the fight is over.

There's a guard rushing at him, stun baton held at ready.

Desmond moves over Vidic's body and meets him with a knife. The baton flies at his torso, the guard going for centre of mass for most optimal hit – Desmond ducks under it and knifes the guy into the meat of his thigh. There's a shout – more guys coming from the bedroom – as Desmond pulls the knife out, turns it in his hand and then slices it over the guy's belly as he falls, crying out in pain. A stab and he's silent.

Two more guards rush at him, both at the same time. Desmond meets them, sliding between them – grabbing another stun baton coming at him by the guy's wrist and aiming it at the other guy. The noise and smell of the charge going off is a mild distraction but Desmond pushes it aside, using the wrist he's still holding to tug the second guy off balance and onto the floor – speeding him along with a knife to the chest. The guard who felt the brunt of the baton gets only a moment to catch his breath before Desmond's knife catches his throat and then he can't breathe anymore.

 _"Three down, one more to go,"_ Clay says in his ear, his breath audible as he sighs – though whether it is because of the action or because of Vidic, Desmond doesn't know. No time to start wondering either.

Quickly Desmond rises and moves up to the bedroom door, sneaking a glance in. The last guard is there, securing the subject with plastic cuffs – she's lying on her belly on the bed, unconscious judging by how listless she is as the guard binds her wrists. The guard is glancing over his shoulder – obviously, he heard the action – and the moment Desmond eases in, he's reaching for his baton, going for a walkie-talkie as well.

"There's a breach in –" is all the guy manages to say, before Desmond catches him with a kick to the solar plexus, sending him skidding back. The guard flails, goes for a swing with the baton snapping with electricity, and Desmond kicks his feet under him, sending him onto the floor. A kick, and the guy is either unconscious or soon to be dead.

Desmond breathes and then turns to the subject. "How's the evacuation coming along?" Desmond asks while swinging the knife another way around in his hand, using it to cut through the plastic cuffs. The female Subject's hands fall down from the middle of her back, lifeless and limp.

 _"Almost there,"_ Clay answers. _"You do realise that you still need to make your way out of there?"_

"Yeah, I did figure that out, thanks," Desmond says and moves to turn the unconscious, dark-haired woman around. "Just make sure that –"

He stops.

The woman falls to lie on her back, her face lax and expressionless, her mouth slightly parted. There's a bruise on her cheek, a bit of blood smeared on her full lower lip – though not from any visible cut. Either she'd bit her tongue or her cheek – or maybe one of the guards sent in to subdue her, it's hard to say. Under the blood and bruises, she's beautiful.

 _"Seventeen?"_ Clay asks slowly in his ear, sounding wary, as Desmond stands over the woman and barely dares to breathe. _"What's going on? You know her?"_

Desmond blinks and swallows – and then quickly reaches over to check her pulse. It's rapid but steady, and she's breathing okay. The fight hadn't knocked her about too bad – it doesn't look like she's too badly injured anyway. Just unconscious. She's alright. She's _alright_ and just _there._

 _"Desmond?"_ Clay says, impatient and nervous. _"Answer me – what's going on?"_

"Clay," Desmond says quietly. "This is my mother."

She's just like he remembers her too. Her skin under the bruises still has the tan of Black Hills – she used to work outside a lot, sparring with the older kids, managing the defenses. She has tan lines on her neck where her sleeveless top's low neckline runs lower than the t-shirts she usually wore did. Somehow though, she looks pale – the sort of paleness Desmond knows well. The odd off-tone paleness off a person with naturally darker complexion – who'd been confined indoors for a little too long.

 _"That's your – what?"_ Clay says. _"What?!"_

"It's her, I know it's her, she looks exactly like how I  – I don't –" Desmond says and then stops. He can't even remember the last time he saw her, but she looks exactly like he remembers her… from before he'd ran from the Farm.

Which was only couple months back.

"Clay," Desmond says and breathes in slowly. "Describe her for me? Please?"

Clay takes no time at all to figure what he needs. _"Five foot nine, maybe, dark shoulder length hair, almost black, curly. Complexion like yours, tiny bit darker maybe – full lips, straight nose, not as long as yours. She hasn't plucked her eyebrows, has no makeup – still very pretty. I'd say her features are middle eastern, slightly Asian, maybe? Hard to tell but something about the eyes…"_

Desmond breathes in and out as Clay describes what he sees in the cameras – and it matches what Desmond sees in front of him. It's her – it really is her. "How the hell is she here?" Desmond demands. "My mother was never an Animus Subject. Was she? They would've told me – they told me she's _fine_ –"

 _"Desmond,"_ Clay says. _"I don't know any better than you do – but you need to get out of there. They're almost done evacuating the building and are calling for a team for bomb disposal – unless you want to kill upwards to twenty more people when you blow the place up, you need to do it before they get there."_

"Shit," Desmond says. "Shit, shit… Can I get out of here undetected with her?"

Clay considers for a moment. _"Depends on how fast can you pull on an uniform."_

Desmond frowns and then looks down. "Let's find out," Desmond mutters and then crouches down to strip the last guy he'd taken down.

* * *

 

Desmond doesn't remember much of the escape – it blurs into a cacophony of shouting and alarm blaring in his ear and the weight of his mother's unconscious body on his shoulders. Somehow he makes his way through the fire escape, waving off the helping hands of guards and few civilians he runs across, muttering something along the lines of, "Doctor Vidic wanted me to secure the Subject, but I couldn't get my hands on a wheelchair," every time someone says anything to him.

Clay's voice in his ear is literally the only voice of reason he has left – his mind keeps drawing a grey, static _blank_ whenever he tries to think. He keeps circling back to his last days at the Farm, to her face across the breakfast table as he shoveled in the buttered oats for what he swore back then would be the last damn time. She'd been smiling at him, telling him about the day's training.

She was the only thing he ever missed about the Farm, and even that rarely. She'd been an Assassin – one of their teachers, their trainers. The first thing he remembers her ever saying to him was, "You are an Assassin, Desmond Miles." And that was what he'd been to her, it felt like. Assassin first – son, a distant second. So he'd missed her – but not enough to feel guilty about leaving.

As far as he knew she'd been fine, though, afterwards. His dad had been fine, so she had been fine too, right? Everyone always told him she was fine. Lucy had told him. His dad had told him.

But there she is, limp on his shoulders with her calf in his hand and her arm in his other as he hauls her off in a fireman's carry. Clay's voice is tense and soothing as he guides him away, saying, _"That's good, Desmond, you're almost through,"_ and then, _"Now, the remote. Kill that fucking place."_

Desmond blinks blearily at nothing and then looks around. There are fire engines and police officers and half a dozen Abstergo vehicles in the distance and somehow Clay had gotten him through them all. _"Desmond,"_ Clay insists. _"Take the remote, and hit the switch. The building is empty now, but it won't be for long. You need to do it. Now, Desmond!"_

"Right," Desmond says, his voice thin and distracted, and gets the remote. No countdown – he just hits the trigger that will detonate all the charges.

There is a sound like the ground is shrugging its shoulders, a distant, muffled concussive force being blow through halls and out open doors. A shatter of glass as windows break. Then a thunderous rattling and groaning of metal and concrete.

With a screech of bending structures and shattering glass, Abstergo Tower comes down. There are people screaming and shouting, running away, but they're barely audible over the noise. Clay had done his calculations well – the building doesn't fall over, it just falls in on itself like a house of cards, just _collapsing_ floor by floor. Crash, crash, _crash_ as each floor falls down on top of the ones below, almost rhythmic – followed by a blast of air being kicked up by the collapse.

And then everything is covered in concrete dust.

 _"Turn around and walk away, Desmond,"_ Clay whispers to his ear. _"You need to get away and hide."_

Desmond swallows, looks at his mother's bare arm, her hand – she has scars and bruises there and her knuckles look sore and bruised like she's been fighting. She has been fighting – fighting Abstergo, fighting Vidic. Fighting all the guards sent in to subdue her.

His mother had always been one hell of a fighter.

How the hell did Abstergo get her?

 _"Desmond,"_ Clay says impatiently. _"Start walking. For me, please. We'll figure this out, I promise you, but for now just start fucking walking!"_

Desmond turns and starts walking.


	10. Chapter 10

It takes several hours for Clay to get to Desmond, which is several hours _too many_ in his opinion.

With a car borrowed from Nora and Fabia – with suitable rent, though they're happy to loan their little Mini Cooper to him and Desmond, seeing that they're longest renting customers in years – he drives all morning through the Italian countryside towards Rome, just barely holding within legal limits. The worst thing about it isn't just the time it takes to get there – but the fact that for all that time, he's completely cut off from Desmond. It's not like the wireless internet is yet a thing properly and headsets only work when there are existing networks for Clay to take advantage of.

Desmond is on his own in Rome with an unconscious woman and no place to properly hide and Clay is maybe freaking out, a lot, about it.

He'd not paid that much attention to the past Subjects of the Animus Project. In future, they were past data at most, stepping stones along the route to him, to Subject Seventeen, and nothing more. It's not like he knew that he'd end up in the goddamn _past_ so there was no point saving that data, only the essential aspects of it. As it was, Abstergo didn't save data under names. They were all _Subjects_ for a reason and that reason was security.

A Subject could be anything, a monkey, a mouse, an AI construct, it could be anything. Clay Kaczmarek and Desmond Miles on other hand were pretty damn obviously people, and putting experimental data under people's names, especially people who might've been at some point or another reported as missing…? Not exactly wise.

So there were Subjects from Subject One to Subject Seventeen, and the most Clay knew about most of them was the results of their experiments, and how the Animus had been developed as result of them. To him, Subject Nine was barely that. She'd been a data point in early 2003, after her they'd moved onto developing Animus 0.1, and that was about it, that was more or less all he had of her.

He hadn't known it was Desmond's mother.

Hell, he hadn't even known that Desmond's mother might be alive at this point.

Clay grits his teeth and then looks up ahead – he's coming up on Rome and it's abuzz with activity. Police cars, fire sirens in the distance – the collapse of Abstergo Tower has the whole city roused up, as Rome isn't very used to stuff like that. It'll be all over the news by now – would be interesting to see how Abstergo would spin it. A terrorist attack, maybe? Probably not.

They wouldn't be able to afford that kind of attention, not on a facility that was doing human experiments.

Clay slows down for the red light and leans back in the slightly-too-small car seat, trying not to bounce his leg. Hopefully, Desmond would be where he'd left him and not too badly in shock anymore – hopefully, Mama Miles hadn't woken up and freaked out on him, hopefully…

Fuck, he hates _hoping_.

Green light and snail-pace drag of cars slowly starting to move. Clay takes a breath, trying to stay calm, and moves along with them. Left, right, forward, right, right, fuck, it's so slow. What if Desmond has been found by now? He was carrying around an unconscious woman, even outside Abstergo's sphere of influence that is a bit weird – regular old police would be suspicious too. Right, forward, left, forward, forward, forward…

It's turning to noon and Rome is fucking jam-packed with people, with cars, with noise. They should've aimed for a much earlier time frame – and he should've set up shop closer to Rome where he could be actually on fucking time if Desmond needed backup. Should've known something like this would happen. Should've been a proper partner – even the worst Assassin teams know better than to have the backup fucking hundred miles away from the mission target.

Forward, left, forward, fucking _lights_ everywhere, is traffic in Rome always this fucking _slow_?!

Clay bites his lip and tastes blood and it's enough to calm him as he finally, finally comes to the right street. It's too close to the collapse site of the Abstergo Tower for comfort, but with as many reporters, police and emergency staff as there is swarming around the place, hopefully people there will be too damn busy and distracted to pay attention to the little side street and the walled-off garden there.

Clay parks on the road beside the garden and then, after checking the area with Eagle Vision, he hops out and then vaults over the low fence to the other side.

The relief he feels when he finds Desmond there, sitting on the ground with his mother's head in his lap, nearly takes Clay's knees from under him. He looks okay – he's changed out of the stolen uniform and is wearing his usual clothes, though his hoodie is off – spread over his mother's bare arms instead. He's alright. Fuck, he's _alright_.

Desmond looks up, knife in hand, and then relaxes. In the shadow of the trees hanging overhead, his eyes gleam golden. "Sixteen," he murmurs.

"Seventeen," Clay answers and goes to him, reaching for his cheek. Desmond's skin is a little chilly, but he's breathing even and there's no sweat – as he blinks the Eagle Vision out of his eyes, his pupils look normal. Not panicking anymore. "You scared the shit out of me," Clay mutters, stroking his thumb down Desmond's cheek and then looking down.

Missus Miles is still out cold and doesn't look like she's came to all this time.

"I think they gave her something," Desmond says. "I found a puncture mark on her neck – they knocked her out and then they knocked her out again. I think they didn't want to risk her coming to mid-transit, wherever they were going to take her afterwards."

"That's what they do, yeah. Fuckers," Clay says sympathetically, checking her pulse and then looking up at Desmond. "Come on – I borrowed a car from Nora and Fabia. Let's get out of here."

"Is that safe?" Desmond asks, even as he stands up, squirming his arms under his mother's back and legs. Clay leans back as Desmond stands, straining only a little as he lifts her up with him in a bridal carry. Gently, Clay reaches to push her limply hanging head forward so that it leans on Desmond's shoulder instead of hanging back. Then, grabbing Desmond's backpack, Clay stands up as well.

Thankfully, the street is mostly empty and no one notices as they ease her to the back seat of the Mini Cooper. Quickly Clay takes the driver's seat while Desmond eases onto the shotgun seat, and without further ado, Clay turns the car around and heads the hell out of there.

Desmond sighs shakily beside him and then twists around to look at his unconscious mother. "Did you know?" he asks, quietly.

"I swear I didn't," Clay says, reaching to grab a hold of Desmond's arm. "I didn't. Abstergo never stored Subject data under their actual names. If I'd known I would've told you."

Desmond nods slowly and then leans his cheek on the backrest of his seat. "I've been trying to figure it out," he says quietly. "Is it just that I didn't know, or have I changed the past? Is this my fault, or did everyone just… lie to me in the future?"

Clay grimaces and Desmond turns to look at him. "Did you ever meet her?" he asks, almost begs. "When Dad was training you, did he ever talk about her?"

Clay swallows and then shakes his head. "I – didn't even know he had a family until you," he admits quietly. "He never talked about any of you – I only met a handful of Assassins. Security reasons, since I was going to go undercover and my brain was going to be poked around with – William didn't want to give me any information that might be used against the Brotherhood."

"Shit," Desmond says and looks ahead. "Shit, shit, _shit_ ," he mutters and then knocks his head back against the backrest. "They didn't let me contact her," he mutters. "Later, it was always later. After we got through the end of the fucking world. I couldn't call her, couldn't see her, couldn't even send a damn email – everything… everything went through Dad and –"

He closes his eyes with a grimace and wincing Clay winds their fingers together, gripping tightly – giving Desmond something to hold onto. And he holds on too, tight enough to make Clay's bones grind. Desmond draws a couple of ragged breaths and then turns to look back at his mother again. "I asked dad if she was alright, he said we didn't have the time, and – fuck."

Clay says nothing, half afraid Desmond might start crying if he does. Instead, he concentrates on the road, onto getting them the hell out of Rome and somewhere bit safer – somewhere not crawling with police and Abstergo security.

Shitty thing is, he can figure out why William might do it, too. If the Missus was a Subject, or just went missing and there was any suspicion about Abstergo having her – and getting her killed seeing that it is what tends to happen with people Abstergo nabs up… yeah. Desmond turns up as Subject Seventeen, their best and brightest and most successful Subject, the Genetic Wunderkind with keys to the End of the World… shit like knowing that his _mom's dead_ might be bit of a distraction. Especially so, if the same thing they need him to do got her killed and they _knew_ it.

For the good of mankind and the benefit of the mission, William might've very well just bit his tongue and left Desmond in ignorance. And had Desmond died and stayed dead, then… he would've done so with that much more hope, right, thinking his family is fine, continuing on after him.

"Did you get anything about her from their system?" Desmond asks quietly. "How long have they had her?"

"Couple of months," Clay admits. "No word on where they picked her up and I don't know if they knew she's an Assassin. She was marked as highly volatile and risky Subject, though, to be attended to with extreme care. I figure she's fought them all the time she's been at Abstergo, so… she wasn't there willingly."

Desmond turns to look at him. "It's not an undercover mission like yours," he mutters.

"Considering who she is, I doubt they would have risked it. Even William isn't that stupid," Clay says. "Being who she is, she knows too much, I bet."

Desmond closes his eyes for a moment, leaning his cheek on the backrest. Clay glances between him and the road and then squeezes Desmond’s hand before releasing it to shift gears. "Two months is a long time, though," Clay says. "And the Animus they had, it's not like the ones we were put in."

"So she might be worse off than we were?" Desmond asks, his voice pained.

Clay grimaces and shrugs, glancing back. Missus Miles is listing a little sideways on the bench – the space was too small to lay her out properly and her bent knees are turning forward, twisting her body sideways. Still out cold.

"We know how to help her if she is – better than Abstergo," Clay says and reaches for Desmond's hand again. "Is it safe to take her home, though?"

Desmond looks at him and frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Our place is still secret, right? They only ever found it because of your memories, and mine," Clay says. "Even the Assassins don't know about it, do they? If we take her there, will she tell people? We know what happens to Assassin hideouts, these days."

Desmond blinks at that and then looks away, frowning. "I," he starts to say and then sighs, looking conflicted. "Shit, I don't – I don't know. The last I saw her, she was a loyal Assassin. And she's…" he releases a frustrated breath and looks back. " _Shit_ ," he mutters. "Where else can we go? All our stuff is back home."

"Yeah, and if we're away for too long our gracious host might decide to ignore the _no room service please_ sign," Clay mutters and shudders a little at the thought of Fabia or Nora walking in on the Truth. He'd pushed it aside a bit but it still looks like… well, what it looks like.

Desmond runs a hand over his face, through his hair and then lets it drop. "Well, maybe she'll wake up before we'll get there," he says and turns to look at his mother again. "And then we'll see."

Clay glances at him, spotting the golden glimmer in his eyes – ah, right. Unconscious people don't put out an aura – her alliances and thoughts won't be visible until she's aware and actually thinking. "Guess we will," Clay says and squeezes Desmond's hand.

* * *

 

Eventually, they turn on the radio. It makes Clay feel all sorts of low-tech, but the radio is currently their best bet for news, and despite everything happening inside the car, he's pretty damn curious about what Abstergo is saying about the Tower attack. By now, they should have something to report about it.

It takes a bit to find a station with news on – a lot of the early 2000s pop on the other stations, ugh – but eventually Clay hits the one talking about what he wants to know. Even Desmond rouses from his gloomy stupor to pay attention and silently they listen to the aftermath of their actions.

 _"… planned demolition of the Abstergo's research facility,"_ the newscaster says. _"Due to scheduling errors the charges were planted and primed for detonation a full week ahead of time. No word as to yet how they got triggered, but a mechanical failure on the planted detonators is suspected. The Abstergo research facility in Rome has been in full use since the late seventies, and was planned to be demolished late this month…"_

"What?" Desmond asks. "Seriously – they're going for a _planned demolition_? Not terrorism? They're not even going to blame the Assassins?"

"Guess what happens when you claim your building was taken down by terrorists?" Clay says, glancing at him. "You get government agencies and anti-terrorism task forces crawling all over the place. I don't think Abstergo would like that, in their human experiment research facility. Think of all the stuff they'd find."

"Huh," Desmond says and leans back. "I didn't expect that."

"It wasn't that long ago that 9/11 happened. People are still pretty badly on the edge – and Abstergo is primarily an American corporation," Clay says. "Imagine the shitstorm that would follow. American Corporation attacked by terrorists on _European soil_. It wouldn't be just a case of terrorism, it would be a _multinational_ case of terrorism. Governments would be all over this."

Desmond hums and casts him a look. "And that would be a bad thing for Abstergo, huh."

"Hence, they will claim it was an oopsie-daisy and quickly brush it under the rug. Give it a couple of hours and there will be a celebrity scandal in the papers instead," Clay says. "Someone's sex tape will magically leak onto the newspapers, probably. All this will be forgotten in a flash, and Abstergo can clean up the site, with no one being the wiser about what actually was going on. Something they definitely wouldn't be able to do if it was called _terrorism_ from the get-go. With things being what they still are, no one would forget anytime soon."

"Hmm," Desmond says and looks away. "Maybe it _should_ be called terrorism from the get-go, then," he says and watches the countryside pass them by.

Clay glances between him and the road. "I covered our tracks, I think, but you escaped the place with an unconscious woman and people there saw you," he points out. "If there's full-on terrorism investigation, that's going to be brought up."

"And what is that compared to human experimentation, kidnapping and all that?" Desmond asks and then lets out a sudden, sharp gurgle.

"Stop the car," a female voice snarls from behind just as Clay spots the thick white string, taken from the hoodie that had been serving as her blanket, garrotting Desmond to the back of the car seat. "Stop the car, NOW!"

Clay hits the breaks, and the Mini Cooper screeches to a halt on the thankfully mostly empty street, with him barely able to direct it so that it stops on the side of the road rather than in the middle of it. Desmond gasps and then twists where he sits, pinned to the chair – then there's a knife in his hand and the string is broken.

The now very conscious woman in the back seat doesn't stop to wonder about it – the moment the car's slowed down enough, she's kicked the door open and launched herself out of it. Desmond follows immediately after and just as she goes running into the shelter of some poor farmer's vine orchard, Desmond shouts after her, "Mom, wait!"

Cursing, Clay turns the engine off and snatches the keys – Desmond and Missus Miles are both disappeared into the vineyard before he can get out of the car though. For a moment Clay hesitates – leaving the only vehicle they have is a bad idea, she's an assassin, she knows how to hotwire a car and if she rounds back behind them to get at it…

But it's Desmond.

"Shit," Clay mutters, locks the doors and goes after them.

It's a very weird place to have a frantic chase in, a grapevine orchard. There are endless rows of hundreds, thousands of plants, all of them vividly green and in full bloom and with the sun on full mid-noon glare above them, and it's blindingly bright and colourful. Desmond and Missus Miles are nowhere to be seen, and with a curse Clay concentrates until he can see in _energies_ rather than colours – until he can see the steps people have taken through the orchard.

There, a golden path – whether it's the mother or the son, he isn't sure, but he's pretty sure it's one of them. No other points of interest for him here, really, except one of the two. Hopefully it would be the mother, though – and hopefully, Desmond is tracking her down too.

Clay follows, not daring to shout – wailing people's names in the middle of a random farm in Italy would be noticed by someone, probably. He can hear scuffle ahead of him, though, can hear shouting – can see glimpses of glowing auras through the vines.

Then he sees them.

"Mo – Mom – look at me – _look at me_!" Desmond, who has his mother pinned onto the ground, shouts. "I'm not Abstergo. You know me. You know me – just look at me!"

Missus Miles struggles for a moment, trying to kick at him only to have Desmond squirm into a position where he can pin her thighs down as well. She lets out a frustrated grunt and then, finally, looks at him with a grimace. She's breathing hard, which makes the way her breathing catches all that much more obvious.

"D-Darim?" she then asks and then says something in language Clay doesn't know – Arabic.

Desmond's mouth works silently and his throat bobs as he swallows. "Mom," he says shakily. "I'm not Darim – I'm Desmond. Look at me, I'm – I'm Desmond. I'm _your_ son."

Missus Miles blinks, confused, saying something else in Arabic and then looking around uncertainly.

"What is she saying?" Clay asks quietly, coming to Desmond's side.

"She – she thinks I'm one of Altaïr's kids," Desmond says, still holding his mother's arms pinned to the ground. "I don't understand. The bloodline runs through Sef, Darim was only couple years old when Altaïr and Maria had Sef and, Altaïr – I, we, didn't get memories of them being grown up – "

"Altaïr," Missus Miles says and then tries to struggle upwards. She says something more in Arabic, desperate, lost, calling for Altaïr. Then, suddenly, she's speaking another language, and this one Clay knows, if only vaguely. Early Middle English. " _Where is he, Darim, where is your father? Where is Altaïr_?"

Desmond blinks and looks up. "I think she's Bleeding on Maria Thorpe?" he says slowly.

Clay looks between them uneasily and then shakes his head. "I think we should get her back into the car," he says warily. "And somewhere safe and soon, before she gets _worse_."

And just like that, Missus Miles is back in the modern day. "I am not going back there!" she snarls at them and almost head butts Desmond in her renewed efforts to get loose. "You are not putting me back into that damn machine!"

"Mom, you're not going back," Desmond says to her hurriedly and she turns to look at him with a snarl. Desmond winces and pins her back down as she tries to throw him off. "Calm down, Mom! You're not there – we got you out. Look around you," he snaps. "This is not Abstergo. You're out. You're free."

Clay crouches bedside the two as Missus Miles stares up at her son, angry at first and then confused. "… Desmond?" she then asks, her voice very small. "Desmond? _Desmond_?"

"Mom," Desmond answers, exhaling. "You're okay, you're free. We got you out of there. You're free."

"I – I thought – but you – " she says and then she falls lax against dirt under her. "W-what is this? Where am I?"

"In the middle of a vineyard in the Italian countryside, somewhere around Castiglion del Bosco," Clay answers. "We're about…  three hours from Rome."

Missus Miles looks at him and then as Desmond. "Why am I here?" she asks warily. "How am I here – how are you here? Desmond, how – what day is it?" she asks then. "How long was I – what day is it?"

"It's twelfth of May, 2003," Desmond answers quietly. "I don't know how long Abstergo had you, I don't know when or how they got you."

She stares at him hard for a moment and then pushes upwards, to sit up – only to be held back by Desmond's hands. "Let me go," she says and after a moment of hesitation and glance at Clay, Desmond does, releasing her hands slowly and letting her sit up.

"Where's your father?" Missus Miles asks.

"I don't know," Desmond admits.

"Well, call him – I need to talk to him," she says and gives him a frown. "What was he _thinking_ sending you? How did he even – you went back home, of course. He told me you would turn around and come back home, shit," she mutters and runs her hands over her face, much like Desmond does when he fucks up. "Shit – sorry."

Desmond opens his mouth and then closes it and looks at Clay helplessly. "I," he says and then stops, confused.

Clay clears his throat. "Okay, we're all very confused and it's all very terrible, but how about we head back to the car and away from some Italian farmer's private vineyard, hm? Before someone comes along to see where all the noise is coming from."

Missus Miles frowns while Desmond stands up, holding his hand out to her. She takes it and then lets him pull her to her feet, swaying a little. "How did you even find me?" she asks confusedly. "Even I don't know where they took me – I don't… I didn't expect to be rescued. And who are you?" she asks, looking at Clay. "I don't know you."

"I'd be seriously freaked out if you did," Clay admits and holds out a hand. "I'm Clay."

"He's a friend," Desmond adds quickly – which makes Clay arch a brow at him. Desmond shrugs, a little awkward.

"It's good to meet you, Clay. I'm Jacqueline – call me Jackie," Missus Miles says, a little confusedly.

"Awesome, Jackie, it's a pleasure – let’s go," Clay says and points. "Car's that way."

* * *

 

It's awkward. Missus Miles, Jacqueline, call me Jackie, is very confused and obviously completely thrown off by the events. It makes Clay wonder how Desmond took his rescue from Abstergo, such as it was – how confused he must've been about the whole damn thing. And Missus Miles has the benefit of being a fully trained Assassin perfectly aware of what Abstergo really was – Desmond was pretty much completely oblivious.

Missus Miles swings from the horror of, "That machine, they were – looking for something, something in my head, I don't… I don't know how, but they could see things in the past through my brain?" to anger, "What were you thinking, running off like that? Do you have any idea what it felt like, to find you just gone?!" and then confusion, "Where, where are we going – what is this?" which then leads her to Bleeding and talking in a mix of Arabic and very old version of English... and which then forces them to stop so that she can lean out of the car and throw up.

"Early Animus," Clay says quietly. "Far less precise and far more taxing on the neurons."

Desmond rubs his mother's back, grimacing awkwardly. "What are we going to do?" he asks. "She's already Bleeding this badly." And they both know how that turns out.

Granted neither of them _stopped_ in the middle of the process. When they had started Bleeding memories into their own personal reality bubbles, they for various reasons still kept on pushing forward, using the Animus. Neither of them actually knows what happens if you start having Bleeding Effect – and then just stop using the Animus. Does the Bleeding Effect eventually get better, or will it just keep on happening, keep on getting worse?

It's hard to say how far along Missus Miles is anyway. The Animus Tech of this time is too different. It's hard to say what kind of damage it might've done. She's still upright and more or less alert so she hasn't had a memory collapse like they did eventually, but she's definitely not okay either.

Trying to put her into another Animus so that she could go through her Sync Nexuses like they had might help – or with might fry the last of her working brain cells. It's hard to say.

"We should get her into the Truth and have a look," Clay says finally. "It can still be used to scan brain waves – that way we can see the damage. Maybe even get a clear picture of what's going on in her head, memory wise."

Desmond nods and then leans back as he almost gets her flailing elbow in his face. "It can't read DNA though."

Clay shrugs. "Still better than nothing," he says and looks at Missus Miles. "Alright there, Ma'am?"

"I'm fine," she groans and wipes at her mouth. "It's just – motion sickness. What are you talking about – what _truth_?" she asks and then shakes her head. "Have you contacted Bill yet?"

Desmond hesitates and Clay sighs. "Yeah, no – we haven't," he says and she turns to look at him, frowning a little blearily his way. Clay sighs and looks at Desmond. "Think Lucy." She'd done this to Desmond, after all – holding back information, lying to his face… and look where it had led them.

Desmond grimaces and looks down for a moment. Then he looks at his mother. "Mom – Dad doesn't know about this. We aren't affiliated with the Assassins. They didn't send us."

"What are you talking about?" Missus Miles asks, confused. "But – who got me out of Abstergo?"

"I did," Desmond says and glances at Clay. " _We_ did."

"I – but – I don't understand," she says looking between them. "You're –" she stops and narrows her eyes.

Clay is so used to seeing the golden glimmer only in Desmond's eyes that it's weirdly off-putting to see it in someone else's. It's really visible in her eyes too – Missus Miles has eyes so dark they're almost black, and the golden flicker of Eagle Eye in the bottom of her retinas is really clear.

"You're – part of us, though?" she says, and then rubs at her forehead, confused, straining. "You're Assassins, I can see you're part of us."

Clay arches his brows and then looks at Desmond. Desmond's the expert when it comes to this stuff, after all – he has the experiences of four different Masters of the Eagle Vision, after all. And the experience of having been around Lucy Stillman, who somehow had _fooled_ his gift too.

 Desmond sighs. "That's –" he starts to say and then sighs. "Okay, you're not completely wrong but – you're one of _us_ , Mom, not the other way around. What you're seeing is kinship we feel for you – not for the Assassins."

"Subject Nine, right?" Clay asks and then waves a hand. "Hi – I'm Subject Sixteen. Welcome to the wonderfully exclusive club of human experiment Subjects."

She blinks, slow, and then her eyes widen and she turns to Desmond. Desmond forces a smile and then sighs. "I'm sorry, Mom, it's a bit complicated," he says. "I'm not going to call Dad for you though, I'm sorry. I can't."

"But – you went back? You went back home – you did go back home, didn't you?" Missus Miles asks confusedly. "How could you even be here if your father, if the Assassins, didn't arrange it? How could you find me? You must've gone back."

"No, I didn't. I haven't been back to the Black Hills in weeks, and I'm not going to go back either," Desmond says, reaching over her and pulling the car door shut beside her. "We ran into you by complete accident. We were just after Abstergo, we didn't know you were there."

Missus Miles stares at him confusedly and then looks at Clay. "I don't understand," she says. "How – why? I don't…"

Clay sighs, checks his watch and then reaches to adjust the radio. Thank his lucky stars, there's a news report going on – and the Abstergo facility collapse is still big enough news in Italy to be reported on.

"… _apparent schedule error in a planned demolition of the Abstergo's research facility_ ," the report says. _"The charges, placed ahead of time, were triggered by a faulty contact wire in the detonators and the building began collapsing at 7.43 this morning, instead of the planned demolition in a week from now. Abstergo congratulates their security team for the timely evacuation, and so far no casualties have been reported at the site. According to the Abstergo CEO Alan Rikkin, the building of Abstergo's new facility will begin…"_

Missus Miles frowns at the words, uncomprehending – and with a sigh, Clay realises she doesn't speak Italian.

"We bombed the building," Clay says, turning the radio off again. "The place where you were kept, the Animus Facility – we bombed it."

"Vidic is dead," Desmond adds and then leans forward from where he's sitting now, in the backseat with his mother. "I killed him – they're reporting no casualties, really?" he asks, frowning. "They're not even going to chalk it up to them having been caught in the collapse by accident?"

"Dead people take autopsies – finding a bunch of people stabbed in the middle of an accident raise red flags," Clay shrugs and turns his attention to the dashboard. "Vidic will probably magically disappear in a plane crash or something, it will be very unexpected and there will be no bodies to autopsy."

"What are you talking about?" Missus Miles demands. "Desmond, you did not kill Warren Vidic. Did you?"

"Oh he did," Clay says and starts up the car again. "And it was _beautiful_." It really was too – quick and merciless and done without a hint of hesitation. Desmond had just walked up to Vidic and left him dead, just like that, _gloriously competent_. That, the preceding and following fights… it might be a bit fucked up, but Clay is going to cherish those memories until he fucking dies.

Probably better he doesn't mention that for a moment there he'd been more than slightly turned on by the whole display. It had been just that good, though. Like _damn_. Yeah, he's not going to share that with anyone, definitely not with Desmond's fucking _mother_.

The Mini Cooper starts with a little jerk and then they're heading forward again, speeding along the winding roads towards Monteriggioni.

Missus Miles is quiet for a moment, looking between them and then looking outside – but at least she doesn't seem to be Bleeding right then. She stares out at the orchards and gardens and patches of forests passing them by for a long time. Then she turns to Desmond.

"Did they give you a number too?" she asks quietly.

Desmond looks at her and then takes her hand. "I'm sorry. Yeah, they did," he says and squeezes her fingers. "I'm Subject Seventeen."

It's weird and probably a little bit cruel of him, but having Desmond's mother break out into tears in the backseat of the borrowed Mini Cooper makes Clay feel a little bit better about life.


	11. Chapter 11

It's wrong, it's all of it wrong, it's… it's sideways, somehow, but Jackie can't figure out how.

She looks at her son and thinks, _he grew up to look so much like his father_. Desmond has Altaïr's features, the same chin, the same nose, the same cheekbones. Desmond is a little leaner than Altaïr, would grow up to be much taller than him, but when Jackie looks at him, it's like looking at Altaïr, the resemblance is strong enough to knock the breath from her lungs.

Part of her, the confused messy part who keeps jumping at cars and staring at light poles in fear, wishes she could reach for her strange, fierce and yet so gentle husband and say, _look, look what we made, look at this brightness two killers can bring into the world_.

Except she _knows_ Desmond isn't Altaïr's son. He's Bill's son, and hers – he's _theirs_ , not some… some dead couple's from the 12th century. If they ever even _existed_ at all and weren't some strange convoluted twist of imagination and that monstrous technology Abstergo and Vidic had tried to pour down her brain.

She is not Maria Thorpe, nor is she Maria Ibn-La'Ahad. She's Jackie, she's an Assassin, she's an… she's an…

Just barely through that haze of Darim and Desmond superimposed onto each other, two _sons_ melding into single concept through the eight hundred years in between, Jackie can tell there is something wrong. Something's wrong about everything, of course, none of this is _right_ … but something is wrong about Desmond in particular. His eyes, his face – the way he looks at her with mingled fury and sorrow and how he looks away, guilty and determined. How he talks, awkward but truthful.

How he _shines_ when she looks at her with the Gift that once has drawn Bill so close to her.

Subject Seventeen, Jackie thinks, and none of it makes sense.

"Tell me – tell me everything," she begs. "From the beginning, please, I need to know."

Desmond doesn't answer, looking away – ahead. They're slowing down on the winding Italian country roads – still asphalt-covered and well maintained, though, nothing like the broken down dirt roads of Black Hills. There are buildings amidst the orchards and farm fields now, and the ground is rising – they are coming up to a hill. Somewhere to the right, there is a shadow of –

Masyaf, Maria Thorpe thinks with mingled distrust and relief. The place that would be her home, she thinks – the place Altaïr thinks of as his home. She would never feel safe there, she would never feel welcome, a foreign woman with strange habits in the Brotherhood's most sacred home. She would never fit in, she knew, but she would try. For Altaïr, for her children and for their future together she would try.

It's not Masyaf.

"I'll tell you everything in a moment, Mom," Desmond says finally and then leans in between the front seat, to look at their driver. "How are we going to do this?"

"Truth works," Clay says. "She's your mother, there was an incident with how she arrived in Italy, and doesn't have papers. The incident at the airport – should explain how messed up she is too. I think I can swing her a set of fake ID's here, but it will take a few days."

"Right, okay. Good," Desmond says and turns to look at her. "We're here."

"Where is here?" Jackie asks, trying not to be too nervous. It looks like… one of those historical European sites you see on TV, more than anything – a city surrounded by walls. As she watches through the car windows, Clay drives right in through the gates and then makes a quick, careful turn to the right, winding carefully amidst the tight roads between the old buildings.

It's a strange place for a base for… for whatever they are, Assassins or otherwise.

"It's called Monteriggioni. It's where we've set up shop – we have room in a hotel here," Desmond says.

"A… hotel?" Jackie asks dubiously. "What's special about this place?"

"Oh don't get him started, he'll sing serenades," Clay says and after an awkward turn into a little back alley, he pulls the car to a halt and then lets the engine wind down. "I hope you have the cash to give to Nora – I promised her gas money on top of the rent."

"Yeah, I have some," Desmond says and looks at Jackie. "It's safe here, I promise – so as long as we don't do anything stupid. The people think we're just tourists. Let's keep it that way."

Jackie stares at him, blinking. It feels like there's dust in her eyes, making everything blurry and wrong. Desmond isn't even wearing white but she can see a hood, a hint of stubble, a scar on his lip… Confused she reaches out to touch it, and it feels real. Outside the buildings are losing definition, their shades changing – bluish grey bleeding into brownish beige. She can feel the cold chill of Masyaf's winds on her cheek, the eternal confusion of being so far south and still it being always so cold…

"Mom," Her son, her husband's double, says. "Focus, please."

She breathes in and out and then squeezes her eyes shut. "What is happening to me?" she asks shakily. "I'm seeing things – am I losing my mind?"

"It's called the Bleeding Effect," Desmond says quietly. "It's an effect of the machine they used on you."

"Memories of your Ancestors are being layered on top of your own reality. Once the lock on genetic memories has been blasted open once, they start slipping into your head whether you like it or not," Clay agrees and as he opens the driver's side door. Then he's opening the door beside her, holding out his hand. "You're no more mad than we are."

Jackie looks at him hesitantly and then accepts the offered hand. He, at least, doesn't look like someone else – there's no one being layered on top of him. He's far too pale to remind her of anyone in Masyaf.

The air isn't cold – it's warm. There is no wind in the air, nothing like the constant howl of it at the fortress. Desmond is at her side immediately, closing the car door behind them and then resting a hand on her back. "Come on, let's head inside – we can talk safely there."

"Right," Jackie says, frowning a little. She looks up and around, tries to pinpoint where she is and where she can escape if she needs to, but she keeps seeing Masyaf, and Jerusalem and –

Altaïr is walking ahead of her, stalking forward at his usual slight slough, silent and deadly. Maria had admired it often, that lethal grace of him, paired with the strange allure of Assassin robes, how they flowed and moved as he walked. The many slanted tails, the sash, the cowl – there was an odd, almost religious beauty to him. The deadliest worshiper, her husband, though what he worshipped even he could not say.

Then Altaïr turns into Desmond and Jackie almost trips over her feet. Desmond walks like Altaïr does, his head angled very similarly downwards, as if he too is hiding under a cowl.

They enter a building, and the young woman behind a wooden counter looks up. Desmond speaks to her – in fluid and easy _Italian_ while Clay leans forward to hand over a set of keys, adding something to whatever Desmond is saying. The girl behind the counter looks shaken and sympathetic, turning to Maria – no, her name is _Jackie_ – with a smile. "I am sorry about your troubles, Ma'am," she says in heavily accented English. "Welcome to our establishment. I hope you enjoy your stay in Monteriggioni."

"T-thank you," Jackie says with surprise.

Desmond says something more to the girl and she nods, reaching behind the counter to grab a book. As Jackie sways with confusion – since when does Desmond speak _Italian_? – her son goes through the motions of renting her a room, going as far as to pay for it in cash before accepting a set of keys. Clay says something in equally smooth Italian and the girl behind nods.

Finally, Desmond turns to Jackie. "Come on, Mom," he says and takes her by the elbow. "We got a room for you."

Jackie bites her lip on her confusion – not while there's a civilian present – and lets him usher her away. Clay follows moment after, saying, "Fabia is going to get us some food," he says while Desmond gets another set of keys from his pocket. "Hope you like pasta."

"I'm sure it's – fine –" Jackie says and then trails off as Desmond eases one of the hotel room doors open and shows her inside. It's a room with a single king sized bed, obviously lived in – there are clothes hanging off the back of a chair and the covers of the bed are somewhat rumbled. There is… machinery to the side of it, strange looking cobbled together machinery.

Desmond ushers her to the bed where she sits, her head aching a little at the sudden shift of elevation.

"Do you, uh," Clay says to Desmond. "Want me to clear out for this?"

"Not in your life," Desmond says and looks at Jackie. "Are you alright?"

Jackie stares at the odd machinery from the side, all the wires leading to what looks like something out of a hospital, and a laptop, folded up and sitting on top of the rest of the machinery. At least it's futuristic enough not to be confused something from the past, but…

"What is that?" she demands and turns to Desmond – Darim, Altaïr, no, he's _Desmond_ , her son's name is Desmond, it's the 21st century and it's _Desmond_ in front of her.

"Our answer to Animus," Clay says and grabs a chair from the side, dragging it forward. He sits down while Desmond takes a seat beside Jackie, taking her hand in his. "I think we better start from the beginning," he says, looking to Desmond. "Whatever that is, here."

"Right," Desmond says and squeezes her hand. "Mom, how much do you know about the Animus Project – what they did to you at Abstergo?"

Jackie looks at him, then at Clay – her eyes burn, and they both glow soothing, safe blue at her. Safe, her senses say. But safe doesn't necessarily mean _true_. There are things happening here she doesn't understand – and Desmond is different. There is something _off_ here.

And she doesn't even know who Clay is. He claims to be another Subject of whatever the Project Vidic was running, but…

"Why don't you tell me?" she says and turns to Desmond. "How much do you know?"

Clay lets out a bark of a laugh and stretches out his legs onto the edge of the bed while Desmond sighs, and closes his eyes. "Fucking Assassins," Clay says and looks a Desmond. "Mind if I do the dubious honours?"

Desmond waves a hand. "Go right ahead."

Clay grins and turns to Jackie. "The Animus Project," he says. "Begun in late seventies, early eighties, it is a initiative by the Abstergo Industries, dealing with genetic research – mainly, genetic memories. Somewhere along the way, probably with First Civilisation tech and whatnot, Abstergo figured out that human DNA has a part that works like an archive – we store our own memories like on a hard drive, and that hard drive gets passed down on the bloodline to our kids. From Altaïr and Maria all the way down to you and Desmond."

Jackie blinks at him and then looks at Desmond, who is watching Clay without a hint of humour or incredulousness. "That's… pseudoscience," she says slowly, warily.

"Nope, that's First Civilisation tampering with our genes," Clay says. "But that's neither here nor there. Abstergo, mainly Vidic, eventually figured out they could use it. Get the right descendant of the right ancestor and you can see what they saw, learn what they knew – find things they hid. Like, say, certain Pieces of certain supposed Paradise. Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad was one of the longest standing holders of an Apple of Eden, you know. Interesting stuff, that… for a Templar."

Jackie swallows, staring at him in wary unease. Then she turns to Desmond – and none of this is a surprise to him, none of this is _news_ to him. He already knows. The ancient struggle, those terrible artefacts – all they had kept hidden from their children until they grew old enough to understand… he already knows.

He knows – and he doesn't bat an eye at it.

"How did Abstergo get you, Mom?" Desmond asks quietly, the shadow of a nonexistent hood on his eyes. "How did you end up there?"

Jackie looks away, gritting her teeth. "Can I have a glass of water?" she asks, looking to Clay.

"I think that's a subtle dismissal," Clay points out to Desmond.

Desmond glances at him. "Stay," he says flatly and looks to Jackie. "There's no point trying to exclude Clay – he already knows everything."

"Everything," Jackie repeats and then narrows her eyes a little. "Even how you ran away from home in the dead of the night, for no rhyme or reason?"

"Yep," Desmond says, popping the word without any hint of shame. "Everything."

It's almost hostile – and Jackie's first reflex is to shout at him. Compromising the Order to an outsider like that, to this man she knows nothing about, of whom probably no one knows anything about? Mentor's son or not, that's a punishable offence. But then, so is running away the way Desmond has – and for all that he's right there, in front of her, he hadn't returned. He's still on the run – and he'd ran far away indeed, all the way to Italy. Jesus _Christ_.

Jackie takes a breath and then looks at Desmond, really looks at him, through the twist of illusions and confusion. He looks back without guilt or shame, his eyes are level, his expression calm. This is not the sullen boy she'd chased into the woods. There as a man watching her through Desmond's eyes, and he would not be cowed by a mother's accusations.

Everything has changed now.

"When did Abstergo kidnap you?" Desmond asks. "And what did they do to you?"

Jackie sighs and looks away. "Who's part of this?" She asks and looks at Clay. "Who are you, really, and who do you work for?"

Clay arches his brows and looks to Desmond. "If I work for anyone, I work for him," he says and leans back in his chair, folding his arms. "Don't look at me for blame – Desmond's the one who runs the show here."

"Clay," Desmond says, annoyed.

"You do. I'm just here to spin your wheels," the man says and shrugs. "You get notions and I enable you. Isn't that how it goes? Don't look at me like that – it's worked pretty well so far."

Desmond sighs and shakes his head, turning back to Jackie. "It's just the two of us, Mom, we're not working for anyone," he says to her. "We're not part of any organization. It's just… us, working together. No man behind the curtain, I promise."

Jackie shakes her head, confused. "But – you're _sixteen_ Desmond," she says warily and then looks at Clay. "What do you mean you enable him? What are you two actually doing here? What were you doing in Abstergo – what _is this_?"

"This is going to be great fun, I can already tell," Clay mutters and leans forward to get up. "Just what we were missing in life – fucking parental supervision. Maybe I should go get that water after all –"

"Sit your ass down, Sixteen," Desmond says and runs a hand over his face. "Just… trust us, okay?" he says and looks at Jackie. "And for once in your life stop treating me like I can't handle a single solitary independent thought. We can't help you if you won't work with us."

Jackie stares at him in surprise. "Is – is that what you think?" she asks. "Desmond – is that why you ran away, did you really think we thought that?"

Desmond just gives her a flat look. "How did Abstergo get to you, Mom, and what did they do to you?" he asks. "Please."

Jackie doesn't answer at first, searching his impassive face – his expression nothing like she knows. Desmond had always been on a quieter side, watchful and solemn, but he'd been open too, even at his most sullen he'd been easy to read, an open book if there ever was one.

The book's been slammed shut now, it looks like.

"I left the Farm to look for you," Jackie says quietly. "I went to Rapid City, I asked around if anyone had seen you. I feared Abstergo might've already had you, that you let something slip, so, I went looking, digging. That's probably how they found me, when I was… hacking their networks, looking for you. I was taken right off the street."

And when she had, her biggest fear had still been for Desmond – not for the Farm and all the people she'd just put in danger. Desmond, whose expression now closes up completely as he looks away, to Clay, who meets his eyes seriously.

"Did they know you were an Assassin?" Desmond asks, not looking at her.

"They suspected it, but I denied everything of course," Jackie says quietly and looks away, frowning. "I was questioned, they did tests, took my blood, I don't even know what they did… Vidic came eventually and took charge of me. I was knocked out and the next thing knew I was in that machine. The Animus."

"They told you what it was?" Clay asks. "Did they tell you how it works?"

Jackie shakes her head and hugs her arms, shivering at the memory of it. The confusion, the fear – she'd thought at first it was some sort of torture device. It had felt like one too. Some sort of new, horrible tool for interrogation… of mind control.

When she'd figured out the thing was doing something to her head, to her _brain_ , she'd feared they figured out who she was – that they were turning her into next Daniel Cross.

"I don't think they cared how much I knew or didn't – I only found out the name because Vidic didn't care if I overheard him talking to his assistants," Jackie admits. "I don't think he expected me to live long enough to tell anybody anything." And honestly, neither had she.

"And he made you live Maria Thorpe's life?" Desmond asks slowly.

Jackie looks up. "How do you know about that?" she asks. "How do you know so much?"

"I've lived Altaïr's life," Desmond shrugs and frowns. "Why Maria Thorpe?"

Jackie eyes him for a moment and then looks away. "It wasn't intentional – they were trying to get at Altaïr, but there was some problem, I don't know. I kept getting thrown out of him and into Maria. De-sync, they called it. Something about mental dissimilarities," she shrugs. "I saw some of him, occasionally, but Maria was easier to… fall into."

"Makes sense," Clay mutters.

"Women can't sync with men and vice versa?" Desmond asks, sounding curious.

"Hell if I know," Clay says and shrugs. "But it's _your_ lineage. She probably had the same problem I had with Ezio – we're just not _allowed_ into those very special heads. Something stops the sync from happening."

Desmond frowns and looks at him. "I thought it was because Ezio had your descendant earlier in life."

"Even so, I never got a clear lock on him, not like you," Clay says and leans back in his chair, turning his attention to Jackie. "This explains things though. They knew exactly what they were looking in you – because of Missus Miles here. She made a map for you to follow."

"Shit," Desmond mutters. "Do you think they figured it out yet?"

"Ask her, not me."

Jackie frowns, looking between them. "What are you talking about?" She demands. "Roadmap to what?"

Desmond licks at the scar on his lip and then shrugs. "Altaïr saw something with the Apple of Eden he had," he explains. "It showed him a map of all the Pieces of Eden on earth, and their locations back in the 12th century. I have the clear memory of it, but Maria shouldn't – she wasn't there when it happened. But they might have learned about it through you – did they?"

Jackie's eyes widen a little. "All the – I –" she runs a hand over her forehead, thinking. All the confusing glimpses and moments and memories – Vidic had been especially interested in seeing Maria and Altaïr together, had pushed for memories like that, memories of them in Altaïr's study, in the library, writing, working. "I don't think I saw a map," she says quietly.

"It would stand out to you – it was a full world map, with all the continents, places people in that time didn't yet know about," Desmond says. "Altaïr drew it into his Codex. Did you see anything like that?"

Jackie thinks, trying to remember. "I don't… I don't think so."

"We have a way to find out, you know," Clay offers and nods to the machinery by the wall.

Jackie looks at them – looks at the weird, vaguely claw-like mess of wires that hangs on what looks like piece of a desk lamp, and shudders. "Whatever that is, you're not using it on me," she says sharply and looks at Desmond. "How can you be sure any of this is even real?" she asks and shakes her head. "This is, all of this is –"

There's a knock on the door, followed by a female voice announcing something in Italian. Clay sighs and holds out a hand to Desmond, who leans back to get his wallet out – he throws it to Clay without hesitation. While Jackie tries to clear her head and make sense of everything, Clay pops out to pay the hotel girl for the food she's brought.

Desmond, apparently, has all their money. Jackie frowns and looks at her son. He'd broken into Abstergo, apparently blew up the facility she was kept in, and he seems to be in charge of all the money between him and Clay. "Desmond," she says quietly. "I don't understand any of this. What's is this? What's happened to you?"

Desmond blows out a breath. "Same thing that happened to you," he says and stands up. "The Animus."

"Isn't this cute?" Clay says, showing them a basket. "It's a full-on picnic thing."

"Great – don't open it yet," Desmond says. "Let's go to the Villa. Mom needs to see the Sanctuary."

"Oh," Clay says. "Finally breaking into the Villa, are we? It's about damn time."

* * *

 

Jackie is still trying to make sense of what is going on – and not having much luck with it – while she waits with Clay at what looks like a rundown Italian Villa. Desmond had… disappeared over the wall before she'd gotten a word edgewise and now they're waiting.

It is very odd, to be suddenly out and about like this, in the middle of this small, lovely little community. It's nothing like Abstergo and nothing like Rapid City and definitely nothing like the Farm either. It's settled and old, with old houses and cold stone streets, with ancient stairs and ancient villas.

With ancient symbols of the Brotherhood emblazoned on the walls.

"What is this place?" Jackie asks quietly, looking around warily.

"It used to be the home of an Assassin family, in the 15th century," Clay says, peering into the picnic basket curiously. "The Auditores. One of the ancestors whose memories Desmond lived through used to live here – Ezio Auditore. Desmond is… really close to him, mentally. That's why we're here. Helps that no one knows about it, too."

"… 15th century," Jackie repeats.

"Yep," Clay says and looks at her. "He had an Apple of Eden too, so you can understand why Abstergo might be curious about him."

"Did he make a map too?"

"Ha, no," Clay says. "Worse. He had a message to deliver."

Jackie frowns at that, while Clay looks to the inner courtyard of the rundown Villa, at a fountain sitting there. Somehow, she gets the impression… "You don't like me being here, do you?" she says, frowning. "You don't like me at all."

"Tch, I have no idea. I know nothing about you," Clay says and looks at her. "I don't like you here, though, no. Desmond is absolutely in love with this place, with this whole commune. You being here has a pretty damn good chance of ruining everything – you take the word of this place back to the Assassins and we'll lose it all. Not exactly thrilled about it, no."

Jackie watches him and then looks where Desmond had gone, over the wall and out of sight. "If this place belongs to the Assassins –"

"It doesn't. If it belongs to anyone, it belongs to Desmond – you have no _right to it_ ," Clay says harshly and then straightens his back. "Damn it," he mutters and looks away.

Jackie says nothing for a moment, trying to clear out her head. "Desmond is an Assassin," she says then and squeezes her hands into fists. "He is one of us."

"You don't know shit," Clay answers with a scoff. "Desmond is so much more than that."

Jackie turns to him, eyes blazing, fully willing to tell him where to shove it. She's confused and lost and her head hurts and this asshole is just – but she stops. In the sight of her Gift, Clay is still glowing blue – absolutely incandescent blue. Even as he's cursing her out, there is still that kinship.

Breathing in and out slowly and trying to calm her pounding heart, Jackie looks at the young man in front of her. He really is young, older than Desmond obviously, but still so young, he can't be older than twenty maybe. Whatever it is that's going on here, whatever he's doing here, _enabling_ Desmond as he said he is… it's not good, it's not good at all. But he's just a kid too.

They're both just _kids_.

"Shit," Jackie mutters and runs hands over her face. "Desmond is my son, I'm just – I've been so worried and I've gotten thrown around, had my insides poked at, my head's been twisted around – I still don't know what's going on here. You're not telling me everything, I know you aren't."

"I wonder why," Clay says, giving her a sidelong look.

"Listen, I just – I just want to know. And I only want to make sure he's safe – that's why I went out looking for him. I've only ever protected him, sheltered him – "

The look Clay gives her is incredulous enough to make her words wither to nothing. "Jesus, you actually believe that," he says and shakes his head. "Un-fucking-believable."

Jackie blinks at him and then grits her teeth. "Well just look at what happened," she says. "He runs away and Abstergo catches him the moment he's out!"

Clay opens his mouth and then grimaces and looks away, gritting his teeth.

Ha, can't deny it, can he, the _bastard_ , Jackie thinks, and presses forward. "I don't know who you are, but you obviously care for Desmond – and I do too, I only want the best for him. Whatever happened, whatever's going on…" she trails off. "I just want to understand. Who are you? What happened to you two?"

Clay glances her and looks away. "Not sure that's any of your business yet," he mutters.

"Desmond is my son," Jackie says desperately. "I have the right to know."

"You don't have shit," Clay answers and then blows out a breath. "Oh, fuck it. We wait for Desmond, this isn't my fucking story to tell. If he wants you to know, he'll tell you. I'm not going behind his back."

Jackie opens her mouth and then closes it, blinking. "I," she starts to say. "Alright," she says then. "I'm sorry, I – shouldn't be taking this out on you. I'm sorry."

Clay sighs. "Whatever," he mutters and looks away.

Jackie takes a deep breath and then scrubs a hand over her face, trying to calm down. She's had a shock and she's confused – she is not going to take it out on this kid. Whoever he is, Desmond trusts him, probably more than he trusts her at this moment. Doing anything untoward would not help. And he's right – she wouldn't want to go behind her son's back either, wouldn't want to give him any more cause to distrust and worry about her.

"I'm just trying to understand," she says quietly. "This is all so damn confusing. My son isn't acting like my son, and I don't know you. I feel like I don't know anything anymore."

Clay says nothing for a moment, staring at the courtyard. "And lashing out makes you feel better," he mutters. "Yeah, I know that feeling," he says and then sighs, folding his arms with the picnic basket hanging off one of them. "Desmond saved my life," he says. "It was kind of an accident on his part, but I only got out of the Animus thanks to him. I can never pay that back to him but I'm damn well going to try."

"So, it's gratitude?" Jackie asks, grasping for reason.

"… no," Clay answers and looks at her. "I love that little shit more than life itself. And if you try and ruin _any of this_ for him… I might actually kill you."

It said with such flat, open honesty that it steals Jackie's breath for a moment. She stares at him, wide-eyed, and Clay looks away, huffing out an almost embarrassed breath. Like that's just something he can say and it's not horrible – just mildly awkward. Holy shit, he's dangerous, she thinks. He's actually _insane_.

"Don't look so horrified," Clay says, sounding bored and annoyed. "You're an Assassin. You're no fucking better than I am."

"You just threatened to _kill me_ ," Jackie says tensely.

Clay rolls his eyes. "Only if you make a nuisance of yourself," he says and looks at her. "I don't give a shit what you do, but if you try and force Desmond to go back, if you try and trick him, cheat him, ruin his life for him…" he shakes his head. "You have one chance with him, Jackie Miles. Don't waste it."

Jackie can feel her cheek flex, can feel her fingers curl. If she had a knife, she might try and put it into him. He's a threat, an obvious and very dangerous threat, and god only knows what he has already done. Why does Desmond trust him? Just because they'd been in Abstergo together? Just what happened there to make this insane man so loyal to her son?

"What happened to him in Abstergo?" Jackie asks, determined to push the blame where it belongs. "What did they do to my boy?"

Clay smiles wryly at nothing. "What do you think?"

There is a clunk coming from a door to the left of them and then a crash as the door is blown outward by a sharp kick. Desmond steps out through the broken door frame, grimacing a little.

"I got the way open," he says and looks between them. If he heard their talk, if he senses the tension there, he shows nothing of it. "Come on – the way down to the Sanctuary is open."

"What is the Sanctuary?" Jackie asks, even as Clay steps forward without hesitation to follow Desmond into the rundown villa.

"It's where they kept the history of the Brotherhood, once upon a time," Desmond says. "Come on, you'll see."

Wary, Jackie follows, watching how Clay automatically takes place next to Desmond, fitting to her son's side like he expects to belong there. And Desmond lets him – Desmond, who had never been too easy about letting people into his personal sphere, even bumps his shoulder against Clay's as he turns to lead them inwards. They stand so close to each other that there's barely any space there.

When she'd woken up in the back seat of their borrowed car, they'd been holding hands, their fingers twined together. She hadn't paid attention to it then, and afterwards Desmond had sat in the back with her, but before… they'd been holding hands.

Does Desmond even know how insane the person he trusts really is?

Troubled, Jackie bites her tongue on the worries bubbling up inside her as she follows her son and his… _friend_ down and under ground. There's a long winding staircase that leads below the villa, looking like it had been build hundreds of years ago – and smelling like it hasn't been accessed since either. It must be some kind of escape route, she thinks – Desmond had accessed it from the outside, after all, he hadn't entered the Villa itself. It makes sense – Monteriggioni seems to be a fortress, and fortresses would have escape routes…

They come up to large, circular room with, some small bits of its wall and portion of its ceiling slightly collapsed – but most of it perfectly intact. The staircase is separated from the main room by a section of stone balustre and on the other side of the room… oh…

Jackie vaults over the stone balustre and then walks up to the statue in the middle of the back wall, embedded in a elaborate alcove behind a metal grate. Her heart feels like it does a little somersault in her chest and she can feel her eyes sting with tears that don't belong to her. Somewhere within her, Maria Thorpe feels like crying.

"Altaïr," she whispers, staring up to the statue – a picture-perfect rendition of her husband, Maria's husband. The Flying Eagle of Masyaf. Jackie draws a shuddering breath. "He's real," she says. "He's real. It's all real."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees, looking at the other statues while Clay crouches down to investigate what's in the basket he was carrying. "He was born around 1165 and died in 1257 – he was the Mentor of the Levantine branch of the Brotherhood and he basically wrote the book on how the Brotherhood was run afterwards."

Jackie breathes in and out, reaching out over the stone pedestal the statue stands on and running her fingers down the stone foot of Altaïr. They even got his shoes right. "I knew he was – it's all a part of our history, but…" she shakes her head. "What I saw – it was _real_. They really were memories. Abstergo really do have the ability to resurrect past memories?"

"Well, they did," Clay comments and takes out some bread from the basket, breaking it in half and handing the other half to Jackie's son. "But then Desmond took out the building. They will still have the designs for the machines left, but with the head of the project and all their working machines gone… it might take them while to pick it up again."

Jackie blinks and turns to look at them. "That's why," she realises. "You destroyed the building to destroy the machines?"

Desmond shrugs and bites into the piece of bread, looking up at Altaïr's statue. "World is a better place without them," he says, resting a hand on Clay's shoulder. "Finding you there was a bit unexpected. I'm glad we did, though."

Judging by the look Clay gives her over the picnic basket, he's not so sure yet. He doesn't say anything about that, though, just motions at the basket. "How about some pasta, hm?" he offers instead. "There's a bottle of wine here too. And I think we could all use a drink right now."

Jackie considers saying something along the lines of Desmond being too young to drink, but… oh, to hell with it.

Desmond had blown up a building, rescued her when she'd thought no one else would, _killed people_ … and probably other things she doesn't even know about yet. So she sighs and turns away from Altaïr's statue. "Wine sounds lovely," she says. "Here's hoping there's plenty of it."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex happens. Warning. Sex.

"So, this is your room," Desmond says awkwardly. "Ours is just next door so if you need anything…"

"I think I can handle it, darling," his mother says, peering into the room. It's more or less the same as the one Desmond and Clay are staying in – hers has only a single bed for one person and it's slightly smaller than theirs, but aside from that, it's much the same. Old walls, wooden floors, same sort of curtains and the bedspreads match too.

"Where did you get the money for this?" his mother asks, while testing the bed by sitting on it and then reaching for the remote control for the small television across the room.

"Pickpocketing mostly," Desmond says with a shrug. "We have plans for how to get more funds later on, but right now it's mainly pick-pocketing."

She gives him a look. "Stealing," she repeats. "Desmond…"

" _Assassinations_ , Mom," Desmond says with a roll of his eyes, glancing to the open corridor behind him and then stepping into the room, closing the door after him. "I know, I know, third rule and all that. I never steal from people who don't look like they can afford the loss. Suits and rich folk only."

"Just because we're Assassins, it doesn't mean we should behave like criminals," she says with a sigh and pats the bed beside her. "Our Creed is to serve light from the shadows, not use it to our benefit. We should still have some level of morality and consciousness to guide us."

Desmond hesitates and then goes to sit beside her. Clay's already gone to their room, probably setting up the Truth again, or just firing up his laptop to see what the results of the morning's events were – if the cover-up has been made complete yet. Desmond almost doesn't care at this point, almost.

Some level of morality and consciousness – that's almost ludicrous. As far as he'd known, all morality had flown out of the window for the Brotherhood somewhere around the time his dad had basically booted a seventeen-year-old girl out of the Brotherhood to fend for herself just to turn her into a double agent, and when he'd recruited Clay for his genes alone.

Though maybe… maybe here's the cause. Maybe in the original timeline Jacqueline Miles hadn't survived and as a result William Miles had… grown increasingly ruthless in pursuit of his goals.

Desmond really doesn't like that thought all that much.

His mother flicks through the channels and then stops to a frozen frame of a pile of rubble with Abstergo logo under it. Another report on the Abstergo Tower Collapse. She frowns at the television for a moment and then turns to him. "How did you do it?" she asks. "How did you manage it?"

"Right amount of explosives in the right places," Desmond says. "Clay figured out what and where and I worried about the how."

"But where did you get the explosives?"

"From an Abstergo bunker," Desmond says and shrugs. "One of their doomsday fail-safe hideouts, which they have equipped with anything a dictator might need to take over a small nation in case of a catastrophic collapse of society and all that – apparently they have a lot of them."

His mother just stares at him with surprise and Desmond sighs. "We stole explosives from Abstergo to use against Abstergo," he clarifies. "It's not that complicated."

"I beg to differ," she says flatly. "You just – waltzed in and stole explosives from one Abstergo facility and planted them in another? _How_?"

"Clay," Desmond says simply. "He hacked their systems and told me what to get where. He's very good at it – and I am very good at infiltrating places without being seen. It works pretty well for us."

His mother stares at him silently for a moment, looking a little stunned, and then she turns her attention to the TV. "I can't understand Italian – how many casualties were there?"

"None reported – nine in reality. Eight security guards and Vidic," Desmond answers.

"No civilians?"

"We made sure that the tower was properly evacuated first."

His mother nods slowly and then releases a breath. "That's… that's impressive, Desmond. Even for a fully trained Assassin team, an op like that would be difficult. It was really just the two of you?"

Desmond says nothing for a moment. Does she still think they're _working for someone_? "Fully trained Assassin team doesn't know what we know," he settles on saying. "We have insider information they don't have access to. And Abstergo didn't expect us. That gave us an edge."

"Yes, I can see that," she says and runs a hand over her face. "Desmond –" she starts to say and then bows her head with a sigh. "This was never supposed to happen like this – you were never supposed to be in the field this young. This is – I know the situation is a little beyond your control, but you're still so young, too young and…"

Desmond frowns a little as she lets out a frustrated breath, motioning at the TV. "We decided – not until you were at least twenty one," she says. "Eighteen at the earliest, but preferably later. Not – not this soon."

"Well, nothing I can do about that," Desmond says and leans forward a little, leaning his elbows on his knees. He's a little surprised by that, though, _not until he's twenty-one_? Really? He remembers there being restrictions in the Farm, remembers older kids complaining about not being allowed to do anything real yet, not being allowed to become Assassins yet. But he hadn't remembered there having been… age restrictions.

He just remembers the training. At six year old, he already knew where to sink a knife to kill a man. All the kids were taught how to defend themselves _just in case_ the worst happened. Somehow that doesn't mesh so well with the idea of _no active duty until twenty-one_ in his head.

His mother is looking at him and with an uneasy shift of his weight Desmond looks up at her. "I'm not going back," he says. "I'm _not_ going back to the Farm."

"With any luck, the Farm isn't even there anymore," she says with a sigh. "With you and me both gone, your father should've changed locations. Too big a security risk, two members gone like that."

She reaches out a hand and runs it through his hair, down the back of his neck. Desmond stays still under the touch, not sure if he wants to lean away or into it. He remembers so little about her, in the end – the lessons mostly, her bandaging up fresh cuts, handing him ibuprofen to tend to the aching head after a blow he'd taken. She'd been the one to get him out of bed each morning, sending him off to exercise, most of his hand to hand combat lessons were with her…

But he doesn't remember what she'd been like, as a person. She'd been a trainer more than a mother – just like his father had been more a trainer than a father. Familial love and being an Assassin in an endless, losing war just… didn't go that well hand in hand.

She looks at him and Desmond looks back, trying to remember if he'd ever loved her. He thinks he did, but there are nine years and at least two deaths between them now. He doesn't know her, really. She's more a stranger than anything now.

She draws a breath and then clasps him by the back of his head. "I am so glad you're alright, Desmond," she says, very carefully, obviously biting her tongue on accusations and demands, settling on the essential instead. "I was so worried. Why did you run away?"

_Because I didn't want to fight in a make-belief war I didn't think was real. Because I wanted to be a real person and not a… whatever we were, at the Farm. Because I thought, "If we're the safeguards of Mankind's Free Will, then shouldn't I get the freedom to choose?"_

Why did he ran away? He saw the opportunity – and thought, _if I don't take it now, I am never going to be free._

"I'm sorry," Desmond says and tilts his head a little into her hand, brushing his cheek against her wrist. "I'm sorry I ran away like I did. But you were never going to let me go otherwise, would you?"

"You know our war, you know what we are fighting," she says and makes a face. "You've seen it now for yourself. Do you think there will ever be freedom for any of us under Abstergo's rule? It might have been not like the lives seen on the television, but at least we were safe. Now, look at us."

Desmond closes his eyes and sighs. He'd been safe for nine years. Safe and sound and completely ignorant. And he can't say that. "It's late and it's been a really long day. You should get some rest," he says and makes to stand up. "Sleep – it helps with the hallucinations. And don't worry if you see really weird dreams – that's normal."

Depending on how long she's been having Animus sessions, she probably knows that already. And by this point, the memory bleed into the dreams might even be irreversible.

She frowns, hesitant and then glances away – at something only she sees. "Are they – is it permanent?" she asks. "Do you see them too?"

"Yeah," Desmond says. "Not the same ones you see – I have my own set of ghosts. You get used to them, though. And you can still tell what's reality and what's memory, right?"

She blinks and then looks at whatever she's seeing – the ghost of Altaïr, probably. "I would rather not be seeing them," she murmurs and then runs a hand over her face. "Your – friend. Has he gone through this too?"

Desmond shrugs. "Yeah."

She frowns and then looks at him. "He's dangerous, Desmond."

Desmond arches a brow at that. Right. Okay. "Yes, he is," he agrees. "Clay is probably one of the most dangerous people alive."

That's not what his mother was expecting – she looks a little confused at that, a little at a loss. "That doesn't worry you," she says slowly.

"Not one bit," Desmond says firmly. "We can talk more in the morning, alright? Get some rest, Mom. Good night."

"… Good night," she says quietly after him, as he leaves her to whatever she is thinking. He's not sure he even wants to know anymore.

Fuck, but he's tired.

Desmond makes his way to his and Clay's room and soon falls to lie on his back on the bed with a soft thump and heavy exhale. It had been _a day_ – it had been a day and a night and another damn day. The whole thing, all of it – and now it's been, what, about thirty-six hours since he's had any sleep? Thereabouts anyway.

They'd explained everything to his mother in the Sanctuary under the Auditore Villa. Everything, of course, except for _anything_. Everything about the Animus Project, what Abstergo was going for with it, what they hoped to gain from it – what they wanted of her, of Desmond, even sidling along what they wanted from Clay, but… nothing about the future. To her, they were just another set of Subjects grabbed around the same time as her, but nothing more complicated than that.

And now he's just… drained, mentally and physically and spiritually too if that's even a thing. To think just talking about stuff could be so damn exhausting but there it was – the hours spent _explaining_ were the most tiring of the whole damn ordeal. He would gladly take on another Abstergo Tower rather than sit around and just…

It's not the talking that was tiring, though. It was the lying. The damn _obfuscation_.

"You sure this is wise?" Clay asks, talking from the side of the room where he's sitting by the Truth setup. He's setting it up on top of an armchair now, rather than onto the bed. How very telling of him. "Bit too late to worry about bringing her here, but telling her – and _not_ telling her?"

"Hell if I know," Desmond mutters and throws an arm over his eyes. Fuck, things would've been easier if it hadn't been her – or if it had been no one. That would've been the easiest, really; if there hadn't been a single subject in Abstergo Tower. That would've been just wonderful. Instead it's her and now… now he has a whole slew of new worries to annoy him.

She might go behind their back to call his father. She's an Assassin, she could do that pretty easily with what's available in Monteriggioni. That's the main worry right now, really, the biggest worry – that she will get Assassins on them and thus they will have to… something. Desmond doesn't even know what they do if that happens, but –

There's weight on his side, making the bed under him dip sharply – and then there's similar weight coming down the other side of his hips. Blinking Desmond looks up just as Clay puts his hands on each side of his head, hovering over him on his hands and knees. "Clay," Desmond says slowly.

"Desmond," Clay answers, arching a brow.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know – what am I doing?" Clay asks and then gives him a grin as Desmond exhales at him irritated. "Testing the waters. Seeing if having Mama Miles here changes things," Clay says. "If it was a fluke, or just the _moment_ or whatever. Just getting this figured out."

Desmond blinks at that and then sighs. He'd… tried not to think about it, kissing Clay – shit, it had only been yesterday? At Abstergo Tower it would've been a distraction and then afterwards… "My mother is in the next room," Desmond says quietly.

"That's the one you're going with?" Clay asks, looking almost disappointed. "Weak, Seventeen, really weak. You can do better than that."

Desmond lets out a small laugh at that despite himself. "You really aren't one for prolonging things, huh?" he says.

"Putting shit off just puts it off – it doesn't put it away," Clay says and leans down, lowering his weight on one elbow and then on the other, his face coming really close to Desmond's, close enough that he can feel his breath on his face. "This has been _killing me_. If this is going to be a thing I'd rather not spend all the lovely upcoming _family time_ wondering."

Desmond inhales, tilting his head a little – Clay's nose is brushing against his and it tickles. He can smell the other's breath, his clothes, the hint of sweat – neither of them wears any cologne, which is just as well. Through all their clothing, Clay feels warm as he looms over him, a threat of strange, all-compassing intimacy. Any moment, he could lower his weight on him, trap Desmond under him.

"Desmond," Clay says, his hand coming to Desmond's hair, scratching through it. "Come on, don't leave me in suspense here."

Really, they are really doing this now. Okay. "You're not even gay, Clay," Desmond murmurs, his fingers inching towards Clay's knee at his side, tugging at the fabric of his jeans. "I know you aren't."

"I don't think it matters when it comes to you," Clay answers, staring down at him, hard and steady. "Because watching you go through Abstergo Tower – that fucking thing you did with the pillars, and then fighting? Call me fucked up but I'm going to jack off to all of that one day, probably soon."

Desmond lets out half a laugh at that, surprised. "You are fucked up," he says obligingly. "Really, that's what does it for you?"

"Oh, let me fucking think – I was stuck in bodiless limbo for months and then you're suddenly right there doing _unspeakable_ things with your body, hmm, I wonder," Clay mutters and bows his head, almost banging his forehead against Desmond's collarbone. "Yes, that fucking does it for me. You _ass_. I want to strip you down and just touch you all over, I keep imagining what you'd feel like, it's goddamn unbearable."

Desmond stares at the ceiling. Clay's head is heavy on his shoulder, his breath hot and damp on his chest. You'd think it would be awkward and uncomfortable… but it isn't. None of it's really even surprising. Of course Clay would do this. What else would he do, really?

It's _Clay_ , Desmond thinks and then reaches his hand up, running it up Clay's tense back, over his shoulder, to the back of his head. Sinking his fingers into Clay's blond hair, Desmond turns his head, nudging at his cheek until Clay tilts to meet him.

The kiss is easier this time – it isn't so awkward and breathless and nowhere near as desperate. It's slow and close and comfortable – more like proper kiss and less like the last goodbye. Clay's breath, his weight, the scent of him, his fingers in Desmond's hair, all of it is just… so familiar.

There is no hurry this time, no desperation, neither of them is about to head off to a potential suicide mission. They're just lying there, making out and yes, _this_ , Desmond thinks and wraps his arms around Clay's shoulders, sighing and pulling him closer. Just… _this_.

Clay whines against his lips, shifting on top of him, pushing higher – trying to get some leverage to do something. Desmond pulls back from him and looks at him. "Seriously, my mother is in the next room," he says.

"Fuck," Clay answers, and leans in to kiss him again. "I don't care," he mumbles against his lips. "I gotta – let me just feel you. I gotta feel you, Desmond –"

It's an awkward squirm, Clay's knee shifting from beside his thigh to between his legs, almost kicking him, and then there's a greedy hand on Desmond's waist, running over his hip, gripping at his thigh and urging it upwards. "Fuck, I knew it," Clay breathes while groping him. "Your thigh muscles are hard as a rock. I bet you could strangle me with them."

Desmond lets out a snort at that. "Jesus, Clay," he huffs, even while obligingly lifting his knee up so that Clay can feel him up. "I probably could, though," he admits then. "That probably shouldn't be a turn on for you."

"Fuck, it really is though," Clay says hotly and kisses him again while palming his thigh enthusiastically, gripping it under the knee. Desmond lets him do it with a hum, releasing his arms around Clay to do a little groping of his own. He's always thought that Clay has fantastic shoulders and the sort of shape that Desmond could only dream of. He'd always been on the skinnier side himself, just one size from armpits down to his hips with little curve in sight. Clay is built much wider around the shoulders – _he_ has a waist.

And an ass to match.

"Jesus," Clay gasps when Desmond gets a hand on the said ass, giving it a curious squeeze. "What – really?"

"Not good?" Desmond asks. It's one thing to want to grope a guy and another to be groped _by_ a guy, after all.

Clay stares at him for a moment, his eyes wide and pale, the whites showing all around. "I just – huh," he says and frowns. "You like my ass?"

"It's a very nice ass," Desmond admits, giving the said ass a generous squeeze.

Clay looks a little stunned by that, for some reason. "Huh," he says again. "I… honestly didn't expect that."

"What?"

"I mean – you," Clay says and leans down, elbow beside Desmond's head again, "You are like on a different level of hotness. Even now. I didn't think you'd, you know… I'm not in that league. Especially not now, that I'm all flabby."

Desmond stares at him flatly for a moment. "Really? Really. Do I really seem that shallow to you?" he asks. "That's nice, Clay, real nice. Much appreciated."

"No, shut up, I'm having this. Someone as hot as you finds _me_ hot, I am fucking _owning_ this," Clay says with a gleeful gleam in his eyes and then leans down a little, settling his weight on Desmond. "You like my ass. You, _Desmond_ , like my ass," he then says and breathes. "Fuck, you really do, I can feel you – you're _half hard_."

"It's – this stupid teenage body – get off me, you bastard," Desmond grunts – and with a grin Clay kisses him again, and Desmond can't help but kiss him back.

Its nice, it's just… _nice_. Even while talking stupid nonsense, Clay is _under-his-skin_ comfortable and Desmond can't imagine him anywhere but right there, in his arms, under his hands – with his hand groping Desmond's thigh appreciatively. But considering that Desmond is doing his own appreciative groping, he can't really judge.

Clay grinds against him, his lips wide and ferocious on Desmond's own, and Desmond lets out a gasp as he feels him, digging his fingers into the meat of Clay's ass and pulling him closer. Fuck, that's nice. But -

"Clay," Desmond grunts. "My mother –"

"Is in the next room, I _know_ , I just don't _care_ ," Clay grunts and rubs against him again, pulling the thigh he has in his grip higher and angling them just so – it's a little too rough, Clay isn't used to grinding against another cock, obviously, but god it's good too. "Are you – seriously going to stop this now?"

Desmond swallows, meeting the next downwards thrust with an arch of his hips and – oh _yeah_. "No, fuck – stop," he then grunts and manages to release Clay's ass, somehow. "Christ," he mutters as Clay, torturously, stops – just on a downward stroke, putting as much pressure on Desmond's groin as he possibly can, the glorious asshole. "Stop it, Clay."

"Getting some mixed signals here," Clay admits, looking down to where Desmond's hips are helplessly grinding upwards and into him.

Desmond takes a moment to catch his breath, forcing his body to still. Yeah, okay, he thinks. Yeah. Right. His mother is still in the next room. He is not doing this while there is any chance of his mother overhearing him. Hearing them. "Okay, right. Get off me," he mutters, wiping at the sting of sweat in his eyes. "Shower."

"Shower?" Clay blinks at him and then looks down, his eyes widening. "Did you just –?" he asks with great interest. "No way. I mean, yeah, your body is young, but _Jesus_."

"No, I didn't, you _asshole_ ," Desmond says, shoving at his chest to try and get him off – which he, of course, ignores completely. Desmond sighs, giving him an irritated look. "I've been up since yesterday, I've been running around fucking Abstergo facilities bombing shit and I'm covered in sweat. I need a shower. Get off me."

Clay looks at him, disappointed. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Desmond agrees and pushes at his chest. "Get off me."

Clay hesitates for a moment and then backs away with a frown. Desmond stares at the ceiling for a moment before getting up. "I didn't mean to – you know…" Clay says and shifts awkwardly. "I wouldn't if you didn't –"

He stops as Desmond starts stripping in front of him, his mouth working silently for a moment before he draws a breath. Desmond glares at him and then bends down to push his trousers and pants off, all in one go.

" _Really_ getting some mixed signals here, holy _shit_ ," Clay almost whines, staring downwards with open, hungry interest. " _Fuck_ , Desmond."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees and rests hands on his hips. "Well?"

"Mhm?" Clay mumbles, his fingers twitching, his hand lifting to touch and then drawing back. "Now you're just being a goddamn _tease_ ," he mutters, looking down and making a sort of desperate face. "Jesus Christ."

Desmond arches his eyebrows at him, looking down at himself. They've seen each other more or less unclothed before, living as they do in the same room, sharing the same shower. But yeah, it tends to be different when there are naked dicks involved.

Clay is not getting a clue though, is he – he's stuck on the horny staring mode. It's… weirdly endearing. "Idiot," Desmond rolls his eyes. "Shower," he says and motions to the said shower behind Clay.

"Yeah, I heard you," Clay says, making a face.

"Oh for Christ's sake – fine," Desmond says and grabs him by the lapels. "Have it your way."

Clay flails for a moment as Desmond pushes him backwards and towards the shower. It takes Clay a moment to catch on and then his eyes widen. "Oh," he says, and then, " _Oh_ , okay then," and then soon after that, "Oh, Jesus _fuck!_ "

Desmond grins, taking maybe a little too much pleasure turning the shower on his fully clothed ass. Something about Clay flailing and sputtering though – it's good. Grinning Desmond pushes him under the spay and then pushes after him, claiming Clay's grimacing wet lips with his own. "Such a genius you are," he says.

"You are an asshole," Clay grumbles and grabs his ass in both hands. "Screw you, Desmond," he groans as Desmond pins him to the wall, and starts getting the wet clothes off him. "Jesus."

"Fuck, you're really vocal, aren't you?" Desmond asks, a little delighted, as he wrings the wet button-up shirt open and pushes it over Clay's _really nice_ shoulders.  

"Mgh, no," Clay says, lies, _badly_ , and gives him a glare as they get the wet shirt off. It lands onto the floor with a wet splat and then Clay's hands are on Desmond, exploring eagerly, while Desmond runs his hand over the bared skin, so pale compared to his own, so soft.

Clay has a little bit of a belly and it is _adorable_.

"Don't you dare," Clay grumbles, while Desmond digs his fingers into the sides of his waist.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Desmond grins and nudges Clay's feet apart – shit, right, trousers. "Let's get these off," he says and starts wrangling the wet buttons. Clay shudders and then knocks his hands off to do it himself – he has the right angle after all. Desmond watches and then hums, appreciative, and runs his hands over Clay's bare arms, fingers sliding greedily over the wet skin. He's thicker there too, his muscles not quite so well defined. Cushioned.

It's more than just adorable. They'd both ended up more than little gaunt thanks to the Animus. The Clay Desmond had known in the future, the one he'd met in the Animus Island, he didn't have much fat in his body left. They'd both _withered_ in captivity, in their own ways, they'd both lost mass. Clay is healthier here.

It's a really good look on him.

Clay grunts in irritation and thrusts his hips forward to try and get his jeans off and glares at him. "You just had to push me in fully clothed, did you, jackass?" he mutters and finally manages to wring the buttons open. "Fuck – ow – son of a –"

"Here," Desmond grins. "Let me."

Clay glares at him and then stares, silent, his mouth opening and no sound coming, as Desmond slowly crouches down and pulls Clay's jeans down with him, hooking his fingers under the waistband of his underwear and pulling them down. Clay is more than half hard under the wet cloth and he springs forward, glistening wetly under the bathroom lights, flushing fuller under Desmond's gaze.

Clay curses and Desmond looks up, realising he's licking his lips only when he spots Clay staring at them. Clay swallows, looking between his cock and Desmond and making a sort of helpless thrusting motion. Just to be an asshole, Desmond gives Clay's cock only a slight blow of air, making the man _whine,_ before standing up.

"You are a fucking dick, Seventeen," Clay groans even while eagerly accepting him into his arms, awkwardly kicking his wet clothes off and out of the way. "Fuck, come here, you son of a –"

Desmond grins against his lips, pressing up against him, pressing him into the wall. Clay lets out a huff and grabs him around the waist, his hands moving up and down restlessly before settling on his ass. They fit together perfectly – Clay automatically widening his stance just so that they're at matching angle, and just – yeah.

Desmond grunts and thrusts against Clay, enjoying the reverberation of the groan Clay gives out as it runs through his whole body, and it's perfect, absolutely fucking _perfect_ all of it... but it could be better. Thrusting up against Clay's slippery wet skin couple of times, Desmond shifts angles and then reaches down, groping along Clay's ass, his thigh, urging his leg up.

"Fuck – Desmond," Clay groans and lets him, awkwardly shifting against the wall as Desmond brings his leg up to the crook of his elbow and _then_ they have the angle, Desmond thrusting right into the crevice of Clay's groin, against his balls, alongside his cock, _perfect_. "Jesus," Clay breathes, mumbling something and then leaning his head back.

Clay is red all over – his pale skin all flushed, splotchy in places, and he looks almost overwhelmed, arching up against him awkwardly and moaning. Fuck, he's going to be so loud if they ever get further, Desmond thinks, and it makes his gut clench eagerly.

Clay's hands are insistent on his ass, squeezing and almost twisting as he pulls Desmond into the thrusts. It's just on the edge of too rough and he's probably going to have bruises at this rate, but goddamn, _worth it._ Desmond pants wetly against his chin and then looks down.

The sound Clay makes when he gathers them both up in his fist is gorgeous, breathless and stunned and appreciative. Desmond licks his lips and then leans their foreheads together, pumping slowly with the time of his thrusts, pushing Clay hard up against the wet wall.

"Didn't – fuck, didn't expect you to – to be the pushy sort," Clay groans, his breath hot on Desmond's cheek. "Jesus Christ, Desmond, _fuck_ – "

"Problem, Sixteen?" Desmond asks, pinning their cock heads together and watching how Clay's eyelids flutter at it. Fuck, he's so red, he looks ready to faint and it's beautiful, Desmond thinks, and running his fingers messily around Clay's glans, just to see how he'd react.

"No – _ah_ – no problem, oh fuck," Clay groans and pants, open-mouthed, against his face. "Do – yeah, that, do that again."

 _Nice_. "You could help you lazy piece of – " Desmond stops with a gasp as Clay goes in deep between his ass cheeks, pushing his fingers down into the crease, all the way down to his taint. "Jesus," Desmond groans as Clay grins against his cheek, all teeth, and goes for their balls with his other hand.

For a formerly straight guy, he's not shy, Desmond thinks, awkwardly trying to make space for Clay's hands while keeping at steady pace with his hips. It's awkward now, more than a little, too many hands in the way, but god _damn_ he doesn't want to stop.

He's _so_ close –

"Hey," Clay breathes against his cheek. "Just – uh, realised, I kind of told your mom I'm in love with you. Sorry."

"Oh for fuck's – sake – _Clay_!" Desmond's words stutter into a ragged groan and Clay, the complete bastard, grins even wider against him as Desmond comes, shuddering and jerking, all over his crotch. Desmond moans against him and then kisses him, wet and awkward. "Asshole. You did not."

"I did," Clay says and gasps as Desmond grasps just him in his fist, pumping him slow and tight. "Fuck, yeah, that's –"

Desmond lets him drop his leg, getting his right hand thus free enough to get it under Clay's cock, to get his balls in his hands. Everything is wet and hot and the shower is full of steam now and in that slight fog Clay almost glows. He looks good enough to _eat_.

"You _did not_ tell my mom you are in love with me," Desmond grinds out breathlessly, getting his fingers under Clay's balls and watching with satisfaction how Clay arches into his hands, moaning. Fuck, he really is loud.

"Yeah I did," Clay pants, thrusting into his hands while awkwardly reaching for something to hold onto on the wall, grabbing the shower head and almost knocking it off. He leans his head back and laughs. "Shit – ah – I might've also – threatened to kill her – so she probably didn't notice."

"You _asshole_ ," Desmond breathes incredulously. "You told my mom you'd kill her?"

"If she messed with you, yeah," Clay groans and throws his head back, hips thrusting wantonly. "I-if she tried to take you – back or anything – Jesus fuck, fuck, _Desmond_ , almost –"

Desmond kisses him and Clay comes moaning curses into his mouth, and all of it, absolutely all of it, is gloriously, viscerally _real_.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sex happens.

Down the shoulder onto the ribs, to the dip of the waist and over the angle of the hip bone, down the thigh and up again. Even in sleep Desmond is all hard angles and smooth, solid plains – barely a hint of fat on his body, and what little there is, is what he's gained over the last month or so. Desmond is naturally on the skinny side – long and narrow like a damn arrow. Very fitting of the Chosen One of all Assassin kind. Desmond is like… the embodiment of all they're supposed to be.

Perfectly formed and just yielding and dumb enough to not question things too much.

Clay sighs against Desmond's bare shoulder and strokes his hand up again along Desmond's side, memorising every shape his fingers come across. Warm and lax in sleep, Desmond doesn't so much as twitch at the touch – what an assassin he is, so aware. But then, Clay doubts he would've woken up either if Desmond decided to grope him in his sleep. To each other, they're not a threat. That's… on an odd level of messed up, all things considered.

There's nothing more dangerous to them than _this_. This, Clay is damn aware, could ruin them in ways Jackie fucking Miles and her great and wonderful Mentor of a husband could never manage. They could break them apart, force them to conform and waste their chances, but Desmond and Clay? They could utterly destroy each other. Erase each other from existence.

It's a little terrifying how much Clay likes giving Desmond that power. Desmond who is hard and all angles even in sleep, like a damn stone statue. Almost immutable, that's Desmond. No, that's wrong, Desmond isn't made of stone, either physically or mentally. He has flex to him, he can bend and adjust. Impermeable, that's better word. He'll adjust – but he won't let that adjustment change him.

What does that make Clay though – the rock thrown against Desmond's impermeable wall? The fleeting bird sitting on his window sill? The vine crawling up his wall, breaking through the mortar?

His hand traces down over Desmond's chest, palm wide over the flat pectorals – not much shape there, just enough to be barely felt, but Desmond has a really skinny chest. Very much a guy's chest, with guy's heart pounding steadily under it. Down the chest, over the ribs, over solar plexus, down his stomach… even in sleep, Clay can feel his abs.

"Mmh," Desmond hums as Clay's fingers ease downwards, scratching at the hair of Desmond's crotch. "Sixteen?" Desmond hums and arches, first into his hand and then back into his body. Clay exhales – he's half-heartedly hard against Desmond's perfect pert ass and Desmond grinds against him with glorious, glorious accuracy.

"Seventeen," Clay answers, curling his fingers around Desmond as he twitches and sighs. Fuck, he can just do this now, can't he, just fucking go for it – hell yeah.

Touching another guys cock should be weird, but it's not – it's really not and it's actually a little weird how weird it isn't. Touching Desmond is like… nothing, there's nothing there, not a hint of unease or a recalled word of homophobia from his fucking dad, not a hint of imagined disapproval from William or even Jackie – there's just Desmond. Desmond, Desmond, Desmond…

Clay sighs, rolling his hips against Desmond's ass and kissing his shoulder wetly. Fuck, this is almost too good to bear. Just having him there, solid and real and yielding in all of his hardness. "Fuck yes," Clay murmurs and then grunts as his cock slips right between Desmond's slightly parting thighs, pinned between the cheeks. "Your ass is _unholy_."

Desmond hums sleepily, his hand coming to Clay's wrist, stroking up and down and then pulling at his hand, drawing it away from his crotch. Desmond turns a little in his arms, sliding their fingers together. "Good morning, Clay," he says, a little amused, as Clay thrusts haphazardly against him. "You're up early."

"Ngh, don't pun at me," Clay mutters, worming his hand under Desmond's body, pulling him in awkwardly. "You feel so good, I can't stand this. Jesus."

Desmond chuckles a little, and for a moment Clay just rocks against him, awkward and needy, just _humping_ into him aimlessly. Fuck, he should probably be embarrassed, but the way Desmond pushes back, the way the rock of Clay's hips sends him rocking forward, _fuck_.

"Do you want a hand job or something?" Desmond murmurs, his breath stuttering a little, tilting his head back to kiss his temple.

"No, I want to fuck you," Clay groans. Fuck, he's not usually this pushy when it comes to sex, but Desmond feels just so _good_.

"Well you're not gonna," Desmond says, amused, and Clay whines against his neck, rocking into him harder.

"Fuck – why _not_?"

"Well for one, no lube, no condoms…" Desmond says, humming. "And I'd really need to visit the bathroom before we try that so, yeah, not happening."

"Jesus Christ," Clay groans. "Did _not_ want to know that. Not sexy, Desmond, not sexy at all."

"Cruel reality of anal sex, I'm afraid," Desmond laughs and turns in his arms. "Look at you," he murmurs, appreciative, and reaches to grab Clay's hip to tug him closer, easing a knee between Clay's legs and putting one of his smooth, hard thighs between Clay's thighs.

Clay thinks about warning Desmond of the _parental supervision_ happening from the next room over, but fuck – Desmond rubs against him like a jungle cat, his thigh pushing right up to Clay’s groin, rubbing deliciously against him in all the right places. A moment later Desmond's hand is there too, pinning Clay’s cock up and against his thigh – the fucker knows exactly what Clay wants, _Jesus_.

"Desmond, Desmond – fuck," Clay groans, stroking his hands all over that delicious skin, up Desmond's shoulders, down his long back, down the flex of his muscles and spine, down to his beautiful, beautiful ass and, realising he's babbling about everything he's touching until, "Fuck, mph," Desmond settles over him, and kisses him quiet.

It doesn't take long. Desmond rocks against him, jerking him off against his thigh and Clay helplessly humps up into him, loving the drag of skin on skin, the feel of Desmond's legs between and around his own, the hard weight of him over him. Desmond isn't as turned on as he is, which weirdly is not all that off-putting – apparently, despite being physically a teenager Desmond just isn't a morning wood sort of guy. He doesn't seem to mind it, though, which is –

 _Yeah_.

Clay pants against Desmond's lips, shuddering against him as Desmond fucking milks him dry in nice easy strokes – glorious, fucking glorious.

Fuck, but having a body again is fucking _nice_.

"How's that?" Desmond asks, settling beside him as Clay gasps for a breath.

"Good, thanks, just fucking lovely. _Jesus_ ," Clay mumbles and reaches to kiss him. "You want one?" Desmond is half hard against his hip, a line of semi-solid heat against the bone.

"Nah," Desmond says and lays down with his cheek on Clay's shoulder, closing his eyes. His hips flex slightly, but it doesn't look urgent – he's just luxuriating in the sensation. "I'm good like this."

"You're a weirdo," Clay mutters, stroking his cheek and kissing him. "You're supposed to be a teenager, act like it."

Desmond smiles a little without opening his eyes and takes a deep breath. Feeling him go all loose-limbed with a heavy sigh is – it's something. Clay looks at him in wonder, come drying on his stomach and groin, and then runs his hands through Desmond's hair.

Fuck, this is what absolute trust looks like.

"You know," Clay starts to say, running his hand over Desmond's bare neck and shoulders. "Your – "

And that's when the door is thrown wide open.

Clay looks up as Desmond goes completely still under his arms and both of them turn to look as Jackie Miles stands there, with what looks like the bits of a broken pen and a bent hairpin in her hands. She stares at them, her eyes wide, and Clay sighs, letting his head fall back with a thump.

Well… _shit_.

"What the hell is going on here?" Jackie asks, her voice very faint, her whole body shaking.

"Mom," Desmond says, his voice very quiet. "Get out."

"Desmond –"

" _Now_."

Clay swallows at the shiver that runs down his spine – Desmond sounds dangerous and it's doing shit to him. It's doing shit to Jackie too, whose breath catches in an inhale – and then, slowly, she backs away. Desmond keeps staring until the door closes, his whole body coiled like a spring, tight and ready to snap. Then Desmond exhales and turns to look at Clay.

"I forgot she was here," Desmond mutters, grimacing.

"I didn't," Clay says with a grimace and shifts where he's lying. Yeah, Desmond's mother, William's fucking _wife_ , just saw his spent cock and the come stains all over him. Wonderful. "Sorry."

Desmond blows out a breath and then sits up. "Not your fault," he says. "Can't believe she fucking broke into the room. Jesus _Christ_."

"She's an Assassin and heard suspicious sounds from the room where her sixteen-year-old son is staying with an older male," Clay points out and looks at him. "What can you expect, really?"

"Shit," Desmond mutters, running a hand through his hair and then getting up from the bed. "I gotta talk to her before she, I don't even fucking know. Does _anything_."

Clay watches him head to the bathroom and then sighs and looks up at the ceiling. Well, it was a nice morning for a moment there. Really makes him regret not starting this sooner – they've been in Monteriggioni well over a month, now, they would've had plenty of opportunities to do all sort of fun stuff, if they'd just started sooner. Hell, everyone in the place thinks they were fucking already anyway.

Shit.

With a muttered curse, Clay gets up as well. The least he can do is stand with Desmond when the shit hits the fan. And, if Missus Miles decides to stab him, well, then standing behind Desmond might be the only thing that would save his life.

* * *

 

Missus Miles is in full-on Bleed mode when they find her, back in her room, pacing. She's muttering in Arabic and mix of broken Early Middle English, swinging back and forward between Maria Thorpe and what Clay assumes are the few shreds of Altaïr they managed to instill in her brain.

"What is she saying?" Clay asks, as they watch her run her hands through her hair, shaky and pale. She doesn't even seem to see them, talking to no one, her tone accusatory.

Clay's not sure if this is better compared to the previous possibility of her trying to stab him with a steak knife or something. Probably not better, though, judging by Desmond's tense, pained expression

"She's talking about… I think she is remembering Maria being pregnant," Desmond says. "She's, uh… talking about missing her courses, about having been barren, accusing – damn. I think she thought Altaïr did something with the Apple?"

Clay frowns, looking at Desmond. "Did he?" he asks, fascinated despite everything.

"No," Desmond says. "Not that I know of – no, I don't think he would, he knew better than that. But Maria was married once, long before Altaïr, and I guess they didn't have kids, so… she thought she couldn't have them."

"Guys can be infertile too," Clay says and tilts his head as Jackie stops, staring at nothing. She flails her hands and stops, as if someone had grabbed her wrists, someone invisible – damn her Bleeds must be strong, if she's actually imagining being touched and shit. "I think you should try and bring her down, now."

Desmond draws a breath and then steps forward while Clay quietly closes the door behind them. Tentatively Desmond reaches out to touch his mother's shoulder – before quickly ducking under her swinging fist. Jackie spits something in Arabic and then says, in Early Middle English, _"You have lost our way in your pursuit of dominion! What right have we to enforce our will upon others, in lands so far removed from ours, what right have we to tell them how to live their lives?"_

"Mom," Desmond says. "Mom, try and concentrate. You're Jacqueline Miles, remember? You're American, it's the 21st century, you're an Assassin –"

 _"You can claim you came for a righteous cause, but you will not_ listen _and all these men fight for is wealth and fortune and all you fight for is power and glory,"_ Maria Thorpe snarls. _"The Order of Knights Templar knew honour under Robert de Sable, they knew what we fought for, what we worked for! For a better life and enlightenment for all, not just for ourselves, but for the poor and the unfortunate as well. For you they are only tools, tools to use for your own benefit, Bouchart!"_

Clay lets out a quiet scoff. Not talking about Altaïr then. "You have weirdly many Templars in the family, Desmond," he comments.

"Not helping, Clay," Desmond says, trying to awkwardly to reach for her and then leaning back as she rounds up on him. "How do I get her to snap out of it? This is not how my Bleeds usually go."

Clay considers it and then goes around them, carefully keeping his distance to Jackie. He snatches up the remote from her unmade bed, and turns the TV on, turning the volume quickly up.

Maria/Jackie whirls around to look at it, and then stares, confused, as some morning talk-show pops up on the screen. They wait as her breathing stutters and then slowly starts to calm down, the crouched fighting position she'd taken easing as she slowly becomes aware of the present.

"What happened?" Jackie asks, sounding shaky.

"You had a Bleed episode, a… pretty bad one it looked like," Desmond says quietly. "Are you alright?"

She glances back at him and then spots Clay, sitting in her bed with the TV remote in hand.. Her mouth opens, closes and then she looks away, squinting, trying to make sense of things.

"Shit," Jackie murmurs and runs a shaky hand over her face. "I was – she was – shit. _Shit_. It was so real – she… she was so mad. Everything was changing around her and the Templars were… Only Altaïr would listen, only he made sense."

Clay sets the remote down and Desmond carefully walks around his mother, coming to Clay's side. Clay looks up at him wryly – what, are they going to hold hands too while Desmond comes out of the closet or what?

Jackie looks at the TV for a moment and then turns to them, frowning. "Desmond," she says, her voice growing flat. "Did I just find you in bed with that man?"

Desmond makes a face, sitting down beside Clay and sighing. "Yeah," he says warily.

"You're – he's –" Jackie tries to say and then looks at Clay. "How old are you?" she asks suspiciously.

"Mom," Desmond says. "It doesn't matter."

"You're _sixteen_ , Desmond!"

Desmond sighs. "And I've murdered nine people," he says. "If me having sex and actually enjoying myself for once is worse than murdering people, I'd like you to explain how, please."

Jackie opens her mouth and then snaps it shut, staring at him, looking between him and Clay. Then she points a finger at him. "You are too young to make these decisions for yourself," she says, shaky with frustration. "None of this should've ever happened – none of this would have happened if you had just _stayed home_!"

Clay winces a little at that for Desmond's sake, but Desmond just bows his head, staring at her from under his eyebrows, a lot like many Assassins do from under their hoods and cowls. "How many years did you live in the Animus, mom?" he asks. "How many years did you spend as Maria?"

Jackie frowns, taken aback. "What does that –" she starts to ask and then trails off, watching him. "Months," she says then. "It's been months."

"I lived months as Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, years as Connor Kenway – _decades_ as Ezio Auditore," Desmond says and shakes his head. "I keep waking up wondering how come my joints don't ache, where my back pains went, wondering at how walking doesn't hurt. I'm not fucking _sixteen_ anymore."

"Desmond – that's only in your head," Jackie says imploringly. "Whatever that machine does, it's not real. It's only in your head – you, Desmond Miles, you are only _sixteen years old_."

Clay arches his brows at that and turns to look at Desmond who sighs, leaning back a little. "It doesn't matter if it's in my head – my head makes it feel real," Desmond says. "Just like Maria's anger feels real to you. I'm not a kid, Mom. And if you're going to start treating me like one, after all this…. it's not going to lead anywhere you'd like it to lead."

Jackie stares at him for a long moment, breathing slow and deep and then looking at Clay. Her hands shake before she clenches them at her sides. "No. No, you are too young," she says very slowly and clearly. "Too young to know what you're talking about. He," she points at Clay. "Is an adult man and should know better than this, and if he does and still chooses to pursue you then… He's even a worse person than I thought. What do you even know about him?"

"He is right here, you know," Clay mutters, but he knows when he's become the subject of an argument, and not a feature of it. Great, flashbacks from happy family times, all they're missing is half cooked dinner and half empty whiskey bottle and this would be downright homely.

Desmond doesn't say anything for a moment, looking at his mother almost curiously. "You were eighteen when you had me," he says then. "Dad's _twenty years_ older than you. How is that any fucking different?"

Clay almost chokes at that, covering his mouth on a burst of disbelieving coughing as Jackie takes a step back, looking like she was slapped.

"That's – it's _completely_ different," she says frowning. "And that has nothing to do with this – we are talking about you, not me or your father."

"Yeah. And that's why I ran away," Desmond says, giving her a look. "Because that's how it always was. Do as we say – not as we do. You preach of free will but none of us had that. You preach of holy war and right or wrong, but we just hid and did _nothing_. You preach of doing the right thing, all the while you indoctrinated your own kids into your god damn _cult_."

Clay leans back as Desmond stands up to his mother, shaking with anger. "You and Dad lost all the right to tell me what to do, when for my birthday gift he gave me this," he says and thumbs at the scar on his lip. "And all you did was patch it up afterwards."

The silence that follows is _loud_ and heavy. Jackie looks heartbroken while Desmond breathes in and out hard., glaring at her.

"It – it was an accident," she says then. "It happens in training, accidents happen."

"Of all the things you told us about in the farm, about Templars and Abstergo and all the horrors, do you know what I was the most scared of?" Desmond asks. "That fucking training."

"We-we were – we just wanted you to be able to protect yourself," Jackie says and shakes her head. "All the kids went through training – everyone _loves_ hand to hand combat. It's everyone's favourite lesson!"

"Yeah, well, everyone else didn't have their own parents kicking the shit out of them on regular basis, did they?" Desmond asks flatly. "Try and look at it from the point of view of a normal fucking person for once. You and dad have been giving me bruises since I was _six_. Just… think about that for a moment."

Holy _shit_ , Clay thinks, and clumsily grabs for Desmond's shaking fist, winding his fingers around it. Desmond doesn't look at him, but he breathes a little calmer, taking a slow, steadying inhale and closing his eyes. "Shit," he mutters and shakes his head.

"We were… just trying to do what was best for you," Jackie says quietly, staring at him with wide eyes. "Desmond, we were just – trying to make you stronger."

"Congratulations," Desmond says with a snort. "You succeeded."

Jackie makes a little wounded sound and then sits shakily down on the floor, slowly going down to her knees and just staring at Desmond in horror. "You really think that," she whispers. "You really think that. We protected you – we set up the Farm as the community where our children could grow up in safety and peace without having to worry about constantly being in danger. It was supposed to be a place where you could be free to be children, not –"

Desmond scoffs at that, falling to sit back down beside Clay, looking away. Clay looks between him and Jackie, and then, ignoring her completely, winds their fingers together. Desmond looks at him and sighs, gripping Clay's hand tightly in his.

Jackie draws slow breaths, calming down, staring at them, her eyes flicking between them. There's a gleam of gold in her irises which is there and gone and then she grimaces. "And you still think that – after having been _kidnapped_ by Abstergo, after having been experimented on by them?" she demands to know. "You still think _we're_ the bad guys?"

Clay scoffs at that. "From where we're standing, you're _both_ fucked up," he says.

" _You_ don't get a say," Jackie says to him with a glare and looks at Desmond. "You know what Abstergo is like now. You must see – we Assassins have made mistakes but at least we're still _trying_. We're still fighting the good fight."

"Maybe," Desmond agrees. "You're just not doing a very good job at it."

Jackie presses her lips together. "Then what should we do?" she asks quietly. "Give up, let them win, let Abstergo rule the world to their liking? Do you even know what they're planning?"

Desmond sighs and runs a hand over his eyes. "Yeah, I got a pretty good idea," he mutters.

Jackie squeezes her hands in fists on her lap. "I know we're not perfect, our methods can be harsh, but we're still trying to work for the good of everyone," she says. "For the free will of mankind. You understand, don't you? What other way is there? Abstergo wants us gone, all of us, and they are _everywhere_. How else could we do it – tell me, where else could a pair of Assassins raise a child, and how else could they ensure that child's safety but by hiding him and training him so that one day he might be able to take care of himself?"

Desmond lowers his hand and looks at her. "I don't know," he admits and glances at Clay. "I… really don't know."

Clay makes a face and grips Desmond's hand tighter. Fuck, he doesn't either. As fucked up as Desmond's childhood is… he's not sure he could come up with a good alternative, not on the spot. It's really no wonder that the best-adjusted Assassins are all recruits, and not born-Assassins, though. Jesus Christ.

"I only ever wanted the best for you," Jackie says quietly. "You're my son, _I love you_. I just want to help you."

Desmond swallows at that and bows his head, his fingers flexing on Clay's hand. "You can start by not fucking up with what I have here," he says quietly. "Of all the people I've ever loved, Clay is the only one who's never hurt me."

Fuck that's –

Clay swallows and almost winces as Jackie throws him a look that's vaguely accusatory, as if it's his fault she fucked up her chances with her kid. Clay glares back at her – he's not going to fucking back down now that Desmond has laid that down. She probably hates him – fuck, he'd probably hate him too. Let her.

"Desmond," Jackie says and then stops at the look Desmond is giving her. She's on her last straw and the ice under her is getting very, very thin at this point, and she sees it too. A wrong word, and Desmond will be out of the door, and that'll be it for her.

"Alright," she says finally. "Alright."

Well. Alright then.

* * *

 

Desmond heads up to the Auditore Villa to clear his head almost immediately after, stalking out silently. Clay lets him go without a word, tinkering with the Truth in their room while Jackie does… whatever she is doing, probably freaking out, a lot. In her position, Clay would be freaking out too. Though, on the other hand, he's damn certain he is never going to be in her position.

Shit.

It's all going to go wrong, he just knows it. Missus Miles might be all agreeable now at the face of her son running off again, but it's obvious she's not happy about, and she won't be happy until Desmond is in the position she understands – back home with the Assassins, wherever that is these days. It's only matter of time before her own training and indoctrination will kick in and she will call for her husband. Right?

Desmond's back is not the only one on the breaking point. The only reason she probably hasn't yet is because she knows they'll be gone the moment she gives them up to her Brotherhood. She'd circle around the subject in her head, hemming and hawing for a while, until she'd decide that as an adult and fully trained Assassin she knows better than her teenage son, and then she'd set her foot down and –

"Shit," Clay mutters, as he nearly cuts his finger on the edge of an exposed bit of metal. He needs to figure out a way to wrap up the Truth in a case he can grab and go.. The most valuable part of it is in the laptop – which he is not ever letting out of his sight again – but the headset is a thing too. The way he'd calibrated it, the way he'd arranged it… it's awkward as hell, but it's keyed into the right sections of the brain now. Without the programming to read the data, all anyone could get out of it was brain waves, but regardless, his adjustments made it leap years ahead of its kind.

He needs a way to transport it quickly in case of emergency. Or if not… then destroy it even faster. And he needs to put a self-destruct on the laptop’s hard drive, just in case. A virus or something. He can write one, no problem.

There's a knock on the door and Clay glances over his shoulder tensely. Nora and Fabia know better than to bother them – Desmond pays them extra for privacy – so it can really be only one person.

"Desmond's out," Clay says tightly.

"Please," Jackie says. "I want to talk to you."

Shit, Clay thinks and runs a hand over his hair, pushing the stray strands off his eyes. He should get some wax to arrange it back again, now that it's getting longer.  Something unscented, there is unscented hair wax, right?

"Clay, please," Jackie says.

Clay tugs on the wires of the headset and then gets up. "If you stab me, Desmond is actually going to kill you," he says and goes to open the door.

Jackie looks pretty terrible – like she's been crying, or fighting, or possibly both. "Shit," Clay says and frowns. "Another Bleeding episode?"

"What? Yes, I –" she looks away. "It doesn't matter – can I come in?"

No, Clay thinks, even while holding the door open for her. She doesn't look like she's got a weapon, but Assassin is an Assassin – she probably doesn't need one. Clay might be able to fight her off, but though she's spent a week in Abstergo's care she still has the trained body of an assassin – Clay has the body of a sleep-deprived college student on a bad diet.

Fuck it.

Clay closes the door after Desmond's mother and then shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, nice and non-hostile. "What can I do for you, Missus Miles?" he asks warily.

She doesn't answer at first, looking to the bed – the bed where she'd found them naked that morning. Fun times were had by all – and then by none. When she looks at him, it's obvious she remembers it too. "I don't suppose I can appeal to your better nature here?" she asks faintly.

"Not a fucking chance," Clay answers flatly.

"Yeah, didn't think so," she says and then reaches for a chair, sitting down slowly, sighing. "He's my boy," she says then. "He's just a kid. Fuck, he's just a _child_."

Desmond Miles is actually a twenty-five year old man, a _dead_ man, a time traveler and a bartender and who even knows what else. Clay has a feeling about what Desmond's other not so respectable occupations might've been – there is an easy confidence to the way Desmond approaches sex, which Clay has only seen in certain type of people… in certain types of employments.

Not that he can say any of that. To Jackie Miles, Desmond is her possibly confused teenaged son, who'd she'd found naked on top of a guy five years older than him. It's not a good look, even if the onlooker is a morally challenged Assassin of all people. Clay considers telling her he's not actually a paedophile here – but that would probably just make things so much worse. _Jesus_.

"Can you – how long?" She asks. "Can you tell me how long have you been –"

"I think I already said something about going behind his back, about _not_ doing it specifically," Clay says and folds his arms. "Ask him."

"He won't talk to me," Jackie whispers. "He _hates_ me."

Christ. "He doesn't hate you, lady," Clay says. "He barely knows you."

Oops – judging by how she winces, that was a blow to her ego and then some. "Shit," Clay says and then leans back against the door, trying to think of something to say. There's no real way to soften the blow here, and like hell is he going to just…

"I'm not going to be the better person here," Clay says finally. "I love that asshole too much. I am not letting go of him."

"Do you?" Jackie asks, staring at her own hands, spreading out her fingers and running a thumb along the inner wrist. Missing a hidden blade, is she? "Do you really love him?"

"Yeah," Clay agrees and closes his eyes, sighing. "I do, I really fucking do."

"That's not enough," she says firmly and looks up. "You're – he's…" she grimaces and looks down again. "It's wrong. What you're doing to him is wrong."

"Pot, kettle. We're all fucked up in our own ways, I'm just a little more literally," Clay answers dryly and tilts his head, looking at her. She's shivering with barely restrained anger. "You can't save Desmond, Mrs. Miles."

"But –" she says and grimaces even harsher. "I have to – I have to _try_."

"You can't save him because he doesn't need you to save him," Clay says flatly. "Desmond saved himself. He saved me, he saved you, and he's going to save the fucking world. And I'm not sure he needs you to do it, right now. You're not helping here. You're a _hindrance_."

Jackie glares at him, her teeth bared. "I'm his _mother_ ," she says roughly.

"You're in the way," Clay says coolly. "And I think you know that."

She stares at him hard for a long moment and then glances to the Truth. "And what are you then, what are you going to do?" she asks.

"What I've been doing until now – I'm going to enable every single insane notion he has, until maybe one day, at the end of however many years it will take us… we're done," Clay says and shrugs. "It's been working for us so far."

"Really?" Jackie asks, watching him with gleaming eyes, her expression hard and suspicious. "And what do you get out of it?"

Clay arches a brow at her. "Isn't it obvious? I get him," he says and gives her a look. "I get Desmond."

Through time and through the end of the fucking world, past the First Civilisation and all their machinations, past William Miles and Lucy Stillman and Abstergo and Assassins… Clay Kaczmarek would, at the end of it, get Desmond Miles.

Now that would constitute him winning the world, wouldn't it?


	14. Chapter 14

Jackie trails after Desmond, as her boy shows her around Monteriggioni. It's an olive branch, she thinks, from him – he's still so uneasy with her, but he's had some time to think and he's trying. What he's trying to do, exactly, she's not sure – to make her understand, to welcome her, pretend everything is alright? She doesn't know, and the uneasy line of his shoulders makes it all feel so awkward. She doesn't know what to do with it.

Well, at least she's not Bleeding now. Maria is still painfully close to the surface, but Jackie is starting to figure out her triggers now – what brings her to the front and makes her take over. It's all emotions – and associations. Desmond reminds Maria of Darim and Altaïr, how she'd visualised Darim would look like. So as long as Jackie keeps in mind how Desmond really is, concentrating on the way he's different from the dead men of days long gone…

Still, everything feels shaky. She needs to stay calm, she can't get frightened or angry. That makes her tip over the easiest. She has to stay _even_. It's just not very easy right now.

Clay's words have been echoing in her head all damn day – the way he said it, so flat, brutal. "You are a hindrance," and "You are in the way."

All kids think their parents are in the way, Jackie thinks, swallowing. That's what everyone told her anyway, the few times Desmond had acted up and she didn't know what to do about it, how to react to it. "Teenagers are teenagers," William told her. "He's growing up, realising he's a person unto himself and not just extension of his family. Let him flex a bit – it will do good to him. But don't take any of his shit – you're still his mother."

Desmond had always been an easy teenager, from what Jackie had seen, a very easy child. Even at his worst, Desmond remained calm. His bursts of anger, what few he had, were quick to calm and usually had a damn good cause. He never lashed out without purpose or cause – it was always because underneath whatever he was shouting about, he was really hurt by something.

But usually, he was calm. He did his chores, he completed his exercise, he did his training – he complained, but then all the kids complained. All of them would've rather ran around playing than learn their rolls or fall – all of them would've rather climbed up the trees than learned how to climb down safely. Usually… usually, Desmond was quickly satisfied when he was sat down and explained why things were the way they were.

But then, he'd ran away.

Jackie looks around in Monteriggioni, glowing golden and bronze and orange in the light of the setting sun. It's a beautiful place – old, maybe, somewhat run down in places, but charming regardless, in that old-world sort of way. What Desmond sees in it, Jackie doesn't know – but he sees something. He certainly never spent time enjoying the act of just looking at the Farm.

"Can you tell me about this place?" Jackie asks, trying to understand. Why here, why now – why is he so different here? What… what changed?

"Monteriggioni?" Desmond asks and blows out a breath. "Well, it was built by the Sienese in the early 13th century – the Republic of Siena, that is, it was like… a city-state province thing. Monteriggioni was a major feature in the war between Siena and Florence, hence the walls and all – defending Tuscany from Florence and all that."

Jackie looks at him curiously while quietly catching up with him. Desmond… had never been the most active student of history. This is a little surprising. "And the… the Villa?"

"The Auditore lived here a long time, they were part of the defensive forces here and whatnot, before eventually taking charge here," Desmond says. "I think they were already mostly part of the Brotherhood then, but it's kind of hard to research it. The villa was built around the same time as the rest of the fortress – the Auditore bought it around 1312, I think. Eventually revamped the whole thing, hence the… you know."

The sanctuary, Jackie thinks, as they stop on a sort of raised up platform, a terrace that overlooks lower portions of the commune. Monteriggioni is built like a tipped over bowl, she thinks – rising from the sides and towards the villa. It must've been handy for defence – every point of approach was uphill here.

Desmond leans onto a stone rail and watches over the commune, his expression inscrutable but his eyes warm. Jackie looks between him and the rooftops of the commune, where the roof tiles glow with the light of the setting sun. He looks…

Clay had said that Desmond was in love with Monteriggioni. Jackie has never seen him love _anything_ really, Desmond was barely even fond of things in most cases. The most emotional he'd ever felt for anything was for the glimpses of outside world, of Rapid City – the excitement in his eyes whenever anyone was going visiting and _mom please can he go with them_ …

Desmond doesn't look at Monteriggioni like he looked to the east, though. He doesn't look excited in the least.

He looks settled.

Jackie swallows and looks away. Assassins generally don't live long lives, she knows – they're most of them dead well before they reach their fifties. There is only one she knows, who's lived long enough to be called anything like _old_. And the look Desmond has now is the look Bill gives to the Farm, when he thinks no one was looking. An old man coming home after too many uncertain years.

Jackie bows her head, biting her lip. _A look Bill_ gave _to the Farm_ , she thinks. Hopes even. With any luck, the Farm isn't there anymore, after all. Bill should've broken it up, before anyone had any chance of finding them. Hopefully… hopefully, everyone was alright.

"You said you set up the Farm," Desmond says and turns to her. "Were you part of building the place?"

"Part of it? I helped design it," Jackie admits and looks him over. “I didn't want to have you in a hideout or a base – I wanted to have you in a house, in a home. A cabin in the woods, that was what I thought at first. Just hidden away somewhere too far away for cameras and cell phones. Your father took that idea, and he built a community around it. Place where the few Assassins with kids, who wanted to be with their kids… could."

Desmond frowns a little at that and looks away. "Huh," he says, noncommittal.

"I suppose you don't see it that way, but for us, it was a safe haven," Jackie says quietly and looks away. "We could never pretend to be normal, but we could… be a little more at peace. Is that… too much to ask?"

Desmond doesn't answer, looking at Monteriggioni and then looking down, at the streets below. "I didn't believe in Assassins and Templars," he says quietly. "Not before they came for me. It didn't ever seem like a real threat, just this all-encompassing boogieman. I guess that's why I… never really understood."

Jackie blinks at that and then looks at him. "But – you do now?"

Desmond sighs, leaning forward a little, shrugging his shoulders. "Monteriggioni was… a safe place once," he says quietly. "Ezio, the guy whose life I lived for decades, he rebuild it from basically ruin. He brought in money, build up businesses, setting up a garrison, rebuilding the church, investing in a brothel… People here thought the Auditores were just a noble family, a bit more warlike than most – but this place was safe for Assassins, once. Before it was destroyed by Templars, anyway," he adds with a rueful smile.

Jackie looks over the little commune curiously. "We have a long-winded history," she says then, thinking about Maria, Altaïr, and Masyaf. She can't remember it's fate through Maria's memories – but she knows her history. She knows what happened to it. "There have always been attempts to make safe places for us. And we've always inevitably lost them."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees, bowing his head a little. "I guess I just… didn't see the Farm that way."

No, he wouldn't have. Born into it, it had been a fact of life to him and he'd known nothing else. Born into that illusion of safety, Desmond hadn't known the danger he was in. Born sheltered, surrounded by similarly sheltered kids, he didn't know how damn precious he was.

Jackie sighs and leans onto the baluster, leaning some of her weight onto her elbows. "I was born in the middle of a mission," she says. "My mother, she went undercover, trying to get close to this… it doesn't matter who it was, really. A very important wealthy man. She was spying on him, protecting him, waiting and watching to see if she had to kill this man…" she trails off and licks her lips. "And she got pregnant by him. Pregnant with me."

Desmond frowns a little, turning to look at her. "I… didn't know that. What happened?"

"She killed him, in the end," Jackie admits and shrugs. "I was three when she bundled me up and we rejoined the Brotherhood."

"That's… a really long-winded mission," Desmond murmurs, awkward.

"Yeah – thankfully these days we have other, little less life altering ways of spying on people," Jackie says. "Afterwards, she left me in hideouts between missions – I was raised more by the handlers and the techies, than by her. That's… generally how it goes for the kids of active Assassins, and my mother, Adeline, she was _very good_ at what she did."

Desmond says nothing for a moment, swallowing. "I guess she's dead," he says then. "Since I've never heard about her."

"Yeah. I was ten," Jackie says and shakes her head. "I didn't want that for you. And your father… didn't want it for any of our children."

"I see," Desmond says quietly, swallowing again. Jackie glances at him – Desmond's lips are pressed together in a tight line and his cheek flexes. He really hadn't ever considered it from her perspective, then – from their perspective. But then again, if he didn't ever think the threat was real…

If only it wasn't – if only they could live among people normally without fear…

"There is something else you should know," Jackie says. "Something we didn't tell you since it wasn't…that terribly important in the large scheme of things. But I think now you'd like to know."

Desmond glances at her warily. "Sounds like you're about to tell me I'm adopted," he says wryly. "And I know I'm not."

Jackie smiles a little at that, leaning her chin into her palm. "Well, you're close," she admits. "You're an IVF baby."

He says nothing for a moment. Then he lifts his head, straightening his neck with surprise. "I'm a _what_?" he asks.

"In Vitro Fertilisation," Jackie clarifies. "It's when you take an egg and a sperm –"

"I know what it is! I… am a fucking _test tube baby_?" Desmond demands with horror. "What? Oh, god, please don't tell me I'm GMO too."

"What? Of course not!" Jackie says and laughs at his expression. "No, you were just inseminated outside and then planted into my womb, regular old In Vitro insemination. It's more common than you think, you know."

"But – you – what, did dad have trouble, or –?" he stops in a grimace and shudders. "But – why? I kind of assumed I was unplanned. I mean, you were _eighteen_ – I just – _why_?"

Jackie chuckles a little and looks away. "Your father wanted a child," she says simply. "I was out of commission because I'd broken both of my ankles at the time – bad landing with a parachute – the recovery time was looking to be six months at the very least. I was never that good at serving as a handler, so it was looking like I would be sitting around doing nothing for months on end, so when he approached me, asking if I'd be willing to serve as a surrogate…"

It's a little gratifying to see him gape like he is, utterly horrified. "You – holy shit," he says and leans back a little. "You – but… I thought… I thought you were a couple."

"We are – it just didn't start out that way," Jackie says and looks to Monteriggioni again. "It happens a lot in our Brotherhood, these days. There's a drive to keep our legacy going, to keep the Brotherhood alive – to leave something behind. We live such short lives, so the sooner it is done the better, really. Having children within the order is difficult, though – having children outside it is nearly impossible. So, when an Assassin decides they want a child, it's… done whatever way is the most convenient. Surrogates are common."

Desmond gapes at her. "But – you are my mother? Right? My genes come from you. I am your son."

"Yes, of course, you are," Jackie assures him quickly. "Your father was unattached and I donated the eggs."

Desmond nods slowly and then looks up. "Please tell me I'm not a virgin birth," Desmond he says with a grimace. "Because that would be just… ugh."

Jackie laughs a little at that, bowing her head and shaking her head.

They're quiet for a long moment as Desmond digests the news and sun sets behind the walls of the commune. When he eventually speaks, he sounds curious. "But you didn't just give me up to him, so, what happened?"

Jackie chuckles. "I carried you, my legs healed, I had you and then I held you – and then I probably would've killed your father if he tried to take you away from me," she admits. "Call it hormones, call it motherly instincts, call it love at first sight. Whatever it is, I couldn't just… let you go."

"And dad was okay with that?" Desmond asks, making a face.

"I think he was relieved, to be honest," Jackie admits with a laugh. "He wanted you but he had no idea what to do with you once he had you. Neither did I, but… we wanted to try. To make it work, somehow. It wasn't easy at first, we fought a lot, but then I started thinking about my cabin in the woods, and he upgraded that thought into a farm, then into a whole commune… And I'd like to think we did make it work."

"… and then I ran away," Desmond mutters.

Jackie doesn't say anything to that. They've said enough on the matter, really.

"I don't… dad wanted me? Wanted a kid, I don't… get that," Desmond says. "I can't wrap my head around it, him going through steps, finding a surrogate, just to have a kid, that just doesn't _fit_."

Jackie lowers her eyes a little. _He doesn't hate you, lady_ , Clay had said. _He barely knows you_. "I don't think you know your father as well as you think," Jackie says quietly. "Bill is a hard man to like, harder man to love, but he really did want you. A lot of Assassins die before they reach forty, you know – he was thirty-nine when we had you."

"So I'm just, what… a legacy?" Desmond asks, making a face.

Jackie turns to him. "That's what all children are, Desmond," she says quietly. "A parent's attempt to bring something good into the world. Something hopefully better than themselves. Something that survives beyond them."

Desmond blows out a breath and looks away. "And I bet your Eagle Vision had nothing to do with it," he mutters.

"My what?"

"The Gift, the Sight, whatever you call it – it's called Eagle Vision, or it was, back in Altaïr's and Ezio's time," Desmond says and makes a face. "You've always had it right? I bet Dad chose you because you did – he wanted his kid to have it."

Jackie looks at him and then sighs. "Well yes, of course," she says. "An Assassins Gift. We all want it – those of us who have it want a stronger version of it. It tends to add good ten years to our lifespans. Of course we want our kids to have it."

"Jesus," Desmond sighs and hangs his head and runs a hand over his neck and through his hair, ruffling it at the back. "Yeah, yeah, that makes sense," he then admits. "Fuck."

"What?" Jackie asks, frowning a little – Desmond swears a lot these days.

"No, it's just… never mind," Desmond mutters and hangs his head for a moment. Then he looks up and leans his cheek to his palm. "You became a couple eventually though, huh? You're married now."

"Married as much as we can be, really. It's not as if we could go to a church or sign papers, seeing as we barely even exist on paper," Jackie says with a shrug. "But yes."

"You love him then?" Desmond says, with the implication _even though he's a complete asshole_?

Jackie shakes her head at him, a little amused despite everything. "Yes, I do," she agrees and spreads out her left hand. The ring is still there, firmly on her ring finger. Abstergo hadn't cared enough to remove it, thank God. "It was a slow build of many years, but yes. You don't remember it then? You were four when we had our little ceremony on the Farm, our handfasting as it were. You had the rings – and you almost lost them, too. Your father had to crawl all over the grass to find mine, even our, uh, _Eagle Vision_ didn't help much."

Desmond lets out a huff. "No I… don't remember," he admits and looks away. "Turns out I don't remember all that much about the Farm. Maybe just the worst bits, now that I really think about it."

"I… I'm sorry to hear that," Jackie murmurs. Jesus, how badly had Abstergo scrambled his brain? "There were good times too. At least… I thought they were good times. I wish I could show you how it was for me. How it was for us."

Desmond's lips curl into half a grimace and he stares over the town for a moment. "You could, you know," he then says.

Jackie hesitates, looking at him. "I could?"

"I know you don't like Clay and the Truth is really weird and creepy looking, but," he bites his lip and then turns to her. "It works a bit like the Animus – just a lot better. You can show memories with it, visualise thoughts… a lot more painlessly than in the Animus too."

Jackie frowns. "You mean – you made another machine to relive memories?" she asks incredulously. "After what you already went through?"

"No, no, not really, it's different. It's just for _our_ memories – the Truth doesn't read genetic memories," Desmond says. "Just our minds, really."

"Just… our minds?" Jackie repeats. "But…" she trails off, staring at him. "Why did you build it?"

"Mechanically assisted remembering is just clearer," Desmond says and shrugs awkwardly. "And there are things we want to remember – to record."

Jackie blinks slowly at him and then looks away. Abstergo had done that too, recording memories. She still can't quite wrap her head around it, even though she'd seen it. It feels like science fiction.

"Technology is progressing really fast these days," she comments.

"You have no idea," Desmond sighs.

* * *

 

Clay is working on a laptop when they enter the room, sitting on the double bed with his back to the wall and the laptop held carefully so that no one but him would see what's on the screen. Jackie glances over the bed – which Desmond shares with this young man – and then she looks away.

Well, at least they keep their space relatively tidy. It doesn't look like the hotel staff visit for room service, but the room is still fairly clean, clothes all set aside and mostly folded, and no trash on the floor. For two young males living together in near debauchery, Desmond and Clay live neatly. That's… something at least.

"I want to show mom the Truth," Desmond says, going to the bed and sitting beside Clay.

"The Truth or the _Truth_?" Clay answers warily, glancing between them and angling the laptop screen downwards to hide it more.

"The machine," Desmond says, motioning to the weird headset hovering over an armchair – Clay has moved the whole structure into an open suitcase, which Jackie can see he has arranged so that he can fold the headset arm right into it pretty quickly and neatly. Prepared for a quick get away with his machinery, whatever it is they do.

She can approve that, at least.

"Right," Clay says, hesitating for a moment then squirming away from the bed. "Well, it's already set up, all you need to do is hop into it and do your thing," he says, reaching for the armchair and the bench where the briefcase sit, dragging them both closer to the bed. "Just sit down and I'll recalibrate. Or, do you want to do a proper dive in?"

"No, just the surface level stuff is enough," Desmond says and goes to sit. Jackie watches warily as Desmond leans his head back, and Clay goes to fit the headset over him. It has dozens of wires going into it and it looks like it has a grip – it even snaps in place, cradling Desmond's temples and circling around to the back of his head, before Clay snaps something down to over Desmond's eyes.

"Can you tell me how this works, that is it that it does?" Jackie asks warily. "Does it hurt?"

"No, it doesn't hurt at all," Desmond assures her.

"It's basically brain reader – it's made from an electroencephalography machine, they're just sensors," Clay says while reaching for the laptop and plugging it into the rest of the machinery. "It reads brain waves. And I interpret them as pictures and sounds. Think of a song for me, Seventeen,"

"A song?" Desmond asks while Clay's fingers fly over the keyboards – though what's on the screen doesn't look like anything like… anything Jackie has ever seen on a computer screen. It doesn't even look like code – it looks more like just fractals of symbols.

"Yeah, a song," Clay says. "Something you heard someone else sing, preferably."

Desmond shifts where he's sitting in the armchair and then lets out a slow breath. It's a weird hum at first, staticky – artificial. At first, Jackie thinks it comes from the machine, but it doesn't – it's the laptop speakers.

Slowly, the sound forms into words, into lyrics. _"… farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies. Farewell and adieu to you, Ladies of Spain,"_ someone sings in the speakers. _"For we've received orders for the sail for old England, and we may never see you fair ladies again..."_

Clay lets out a snort. "Is that a damn _sea shanty_?"

"It's been in my head for _days_ ," Desmond mutters and the song starts sputtering, the lyrics stumbling. "You've done something to the sound – it's different."

"Better," Clay says. "I've figured out omni-directional sound. Granted we'd need omni-directional speaker set up to really use it, but the sound is coming from the different speakers now, depending which ear heard it."

Jackie looks between them in wonder, while in the speakers the song fades away. There's another sound there – the sound of waves, and seagulls and creak of…

"Desmond, are you trying to show us a ship?" Clay asks, looking at the laptop screen. Jackie looks too – and then she leans in, astonished.

There's a picture there now, beautiful and pristine, of an old sailing ship seen from behind the rudder. Beautiful blue ocean at all around, sparkling in the sunlight, and wind, billowing out white sails – it's like a scene from a movie or an old picture.

"Hmm, sorry," Desmond says and the image fades a little, darkening at the edges. The sound of waves fades with it, and the creak of wood and ropes ceases as Desmond breathes in and out. "Let me try – okay," Desmond says and relaxes. "The Farm…"

"You sure that's a good idea?" Clay asks, glancing at Jackie.

"Probably not," Desmond says and sighs slowly. "Let me try anyway."

Jackie sits slowly down beside Clay on the bed, staring at the laptop screen, her head pounding a little. There's a sound, but it's not a natural sound like waves or wind, not even creak of wood – it's click and snap like blocks fitting together, too precise and mechanical to be real. Then an image starts clearing out on the screen, taking it over from the strange fractal code.

It's not the Farm. It's not a place that can be real – it's a enormous, impossibly high room with blocks for walls and strange flickers of light – and there's a frayed image projected onto the broken up blocky wall, a faded still seen from a distance. It's not even a good picture – the Farm, seen past the trees.

Desmond holds his breath and lets out a frustrated sigh. "Shit, I can do better than that," he mutters. "Give me a moment."

"Maybe try and remember something that wasn't on the Island," Clay says. "Something you didn't have to rewrite through the code."

"What are you talking about? Something you didn't have to rewrite – what do you mean?" Jackie asks worriedly. "You make it sound like he's rewritten his own memories."

Clay glances at her and then looks at Desmond. "Your call, Desmond," he says and Jackie sighs and turns to her son.

Desmond bites his lip and then sighs. "When you go through the Animus too much and the Bleeding gets too bad, it… can go wrong," he explains, reaching to adjust the headset on his face a little. "It all sort of collapses in on itself in your head. All the ancestors collapse inward."

"Turns into a big old mess," Clay agrees and turns to the laptop again. "And then you either lose your little mind completely or you fix it – you go through your head, through the memories vying for attention, and you straighten them out, one by one, until you have a sync nexus – a point where you're stable within in all your heads, yours and your ancestors."

"You… that happened to you?" Jackie asks quietly. "Is… is it going to happen to me?"

"We don't know," Desmond admits and lifts the headset a little to look at her. "You haven't gone through as many memories as we have, and your Bleeds are different from ours."

"No," Clay says. "Just from yours. I had Bleeds like her in beginning too, thinking I was other people. You got the lucky straw there, Desmond."

"Shit," Desmond says, looking at him. "I – didn't know that. Sorry, Sixteen."

"It's fine," Clay says and nods to the laptop. "You wanna try again? Go for something not shown in the Black Room, this time."

"Right," Desmond says and eases the headset back in its place, leaning his head back again. "Something not on the Island… right…"

Jackie squeezes her hands into fists and watches nervously as the fractals on Clay's laptop clear out again, forming slowly into an image. They call each other numbers, she thinks. _Sixteen, Seventeen_ \- it’s like they'd known each other as _numbers_ before they knew each other as people.

What is she supposed to think about that?

On the laptop screen, there is now the image of a table, wall, a fridge in the corner of the image, all hued slightly yellowish – wooden walls, wooden table, yellow sunlight painting everything bright. Their kitchen, Jackie realises – only, it's a bit wrong.

There were papers on the fridge door which aren't on the image on the screens – drawings and puzzles and notes which are all missing. The calendar on the wall has no numbers and there's an empty frame – there should be a picture of the Eiffel Tower there, hand-drawn, but it's completely vacant. Desmond doesn't recall it, it seems, or the paper plane that had been stuck on the top of the frame, thrown there by Desmond himself and then just left there.

 _"What are you still doing lounging about – up and at them, son,"_ man's voice comes through the laptop speakers and the view swings around to look his way, upwards – to Bill, seen from the downward angle. He looks… bigger than Jackie recalls, his face hard and set as he goes for the coffee machine. His voice is somehow wrong. _"You have exercise to do."_

 _"My foot still hurts,"_ Desmond's voice answers, young and faint. _"I don't think I can run today."_

Bill takes out a cup, pours himself coffee – wrong, he does it wrong. Bill puts in sugar before coffee in his cup, and he adds in cold water after, the absolute fake – he likes weak coffee, _but don't tell anyone, I have a reputation to uphold._

 _"Your foot doesn't hurt, you just don't want to do it,"_ Bill says and drinks – and it's wrong too. He would never drink coffee that hot, not willingly.

 _"It really does hurt,"_ Desmond mutters, turning his eyes downward, to a somewhat grainy bowl of oats. _"I think I twisted it yesterday."_

_"Did you show it to your mother?"_

_"… no."_

_"Then it's not twisted,"_ Bill says and walks past the table, only visible partially before he's gone. _"You have five miles to run, Desmond, you better get to it._ Limp _if you have to."_

Jackie runs a hand over her lips, confused, shaking her head. It's… it's Bill's voice but it's off, it's their kitchen but it's off… Everything about it is just slightly _off_. She remembers conversations like that, Desmond inventing hurts, claiming upset stomach or twisted toe or whatever, trying to get off training - all the kids did it, sometimes they even let him have the morning off, but…

"That's not right," Jackie says confusedly. "What was that even supposed to – it's not right at all. We don't even have a coffee machine!"

Clay turns to look at him while the image fades to black and Desmond lifts the headset.

"There are two coffee machines in the whole Farm, and they're both at the communal hall," Jackie says, shaking her head again. "And that is not how he takes his coffee – and our kitchen is – it's not that barren." It's not that cold looking either.

Desmond says nothing for a moment, looking to Clay. "Is it… side effect of the Animus Island?" he asks. "My memories being off?"

"Probably, but it can be just how human minds work," Clay admits. "We don't retain details that clearly. And memories get messy when you remember them. The older the memory, the worse it gets."

"But usually our memories are clear," Desmond says, leaning forward and easing the headset off.

"It depends on the source, and the effort put into remembering it," Clay says, giving him a look and then glancing at Jackie. "And I'm thinking you don't really want to remember the Farm."

Desmond looks away, frowning. "Well," he says and then makes a face and pushes the headset away. "I don't… remember that many good things about the place, so…"

But it has only been months, Jackie wants to say. It was only _two_ months ago when they were home together – how could Desmond have just… forgotten? And the way they talk about it – it's like it's been years, _lifetimes_ and not just some weeks. Like it's already part of a distant past, half-forgotten and unimportant.

Two months, and Desmond has forgotten so much. No wonder Clay thinks Desmond doesn't know her. He probably doesn't!

Jackie releases a shaking breath and looks up as Desmond stands, running his hands through his face. "So, uh, that's the Truth, that's how it works," he says awkwardly and motions at the chair. "So if you want to show me something, that's how you can do it."

Jackie swallows, looking at the Truth. It looks… frankly rather terrifying, but nowhere near as bad as the Animus. It's just a headset with what looks like a screen that goes over the eyes – just some electrodes and a visor, basically, and a window to her thoughts.

"It's not hundred percent accurate, though?" she asks, while Desmond moves to sit beside Clay on the bed. There's plenty of space to sit, but he sits right next to the young man, his leg pressed against Clay's in easy, thoughtless intimacy. Clay doesn't even blink.

"No, nothing is," Clay says, turning to the laptop. "Human mind is malleable, and so are memories stored in the brain. The genetic memories, those are pristine, but they take more than we have here to access. What we have is mind reading – not data mining."

"Mind reading," Jackie repeats and looks at the Truth. "That's… quite the thing. Abstergo has this too?"

"They don't," Clay smiles a little at that, while Desmond leans in. Jackie glances at them, smothering a frown as she watches, at how Desmond leans with his hand onto the bed behind Clay, casually pressing in close enough that he could lean his chin onto the young man's shoulder if he wanted to. They're right in each other's personal spaces, they don't even _notice_ it.

It took years for Bill and her to achieve that level of ease with each other. Years, before she could just press against him and not have him turn into an awkward sputtering mess.

"They don't?" Jackie asks distractedly, while wondering.

"They don't," Desmond agrees, and looks at her past Clay's face, close enough that he could be rubbing their cheeks together. Judging by the way Clay absorbedly leans into it and then back again, casting her an awkward glance…

"Do you want to try it?" Desmond offers, and Jackie blinks, turning to look at the Truth.

"Yeah," she says and makes a decision. "Yes, I think I do want to try."


	15. Chapter 15

_What is a man but the sum of his memories? We are the stories we live, the tales we tell ourselves._

Clay said that as Animus Island collapsed around them – when he was _saving_ Desmond and thus saving himself. Desmond isn't really mad about that anymore, if he ever even was – doing any of this without Clay would've been… he can't even imagine it now, Clay's become such an integral part of him now that he can't imagine being without him ever again.

Clay isn't there now – he'd cleared out to give Desmond and Jackie some space – and already Desmond kind of regrets his absence. Clay has a way of making sense of this whole memory thing, how it works – cutting through all the confusion and right into the heart of what's really important.

Clay had Saved what he thought was the most vital part of himself – the part that made him both _Clay Kaczmarek_ and _Subject Sixteen_. The story that led to his death. It wasn't all of his memories of future, it wasn't even _most of them_ but it was enough to make him the person he wanted to be – the person he chose to be.

Who had saved Desmond's memories for this trip though – who had decided what data to transfer and what to keep? He thought what had transferred over was all of him, all of his memories. Everything that made him _Desmond Miles_ , just put placed into a younger body, but…

There are images of the Farm on the screen now, conjured by his mother's mind. The Farm looks warmer in her memory, even on the rainy days there is a glow to the images she produces that Desmond can't even begin to wrap his head around. That's the difference happiness made – she had been _happy_ at the Farm, and it paints everything.

Desmond is so used to the Animus, to the artificial clarity of recollected genetic memories, that the sheer amount of _bias_ the Truth displays almost startles him. It's like Clay's greyed out images of his father's house during weekends when the lottery played on the Television, and like Desmond's own fluid memories of Bad Weather with its dimmed lights and beautiful customers, everything flowing like liquid, like alcohol…

They're all prejudiced, in their own ways, to their own worldviews.

Still, there is a lot more detail in Jackie's memories. Scratches at the door frame where she measured Desmond's height every so often – concentrated lines near the bottom when he'd been two and three and four and then they get wider apart as he begins to grow faster, five, six, seven…

There are drawings on the fridge, pinned there by little blocks of unadorned magnets. He drew them – stick figures of what he thought Assassins were supposed to look like. It's cute. A note spread out, a shopping list written with different hands and pens – they wrote one over many days, whenever something ran out, until someone had to do a shopping trip. Usually, it was only every two, three weeks. A receipt for something, medicine – Abstergo's medicine. A reminder maybe.

The kitchen looks more like a home when Jackie Miles remembers it. From her point of view, it's a lived-in peaceful place and the sigh she gives is almost visible – how at home she is, how happy she is to be there.

Biased.

 _"I'm going to have to head out again,"_ a voice says through the speakers and the view turns to meet the eyes of William Miles, walking, buttoning his shirt cuffs as he does. _"They want another pair of hands at the wheel in case the transfer doesn't go smoothly."_

 _"Expecting trouble?"_ Jackie's voice asks.

"No more than usual, but better safe than sorry. We can't lose this team," William says and looks down at the cuffs. _"You should – talk to Desmond, while I'm gone. He's been…"_ William makes a face, _"sullen."_

 _"He's a teenager, Bill, they're all a little sullen at times,"_ Jackie chuckles and the view moves closer, hands reaching out and taking William's hand in hers, to adjust his cuffs. _"It's all the hormones, or so they say."_

William presses his lips together, looking down. _"There's a difference between teenage angst and this,"_ he says and shakes his head. _"Trying to get off exercise, getting into fights out of training… that I can see. But all the lying? The ridicule? And you heard what May said about the class, what he said. Has he talked to you about that?"_

Jackie adjusts his shirt cuff and then clasps his hand in hers. _"No,"_ she says quietly. _"He hasn't. I asked him about it but…"_

 _"He doesn't believe, Jackie,"_ William says quietly. _"He doesn't trust us, he doesn't believe and he's restless. That's a bad combination, considering how well we've trained him."_

Jackie hums. _"I'll talk to him,"_ she says. _"Though I think it would have a lot more weight coming from you."_

William sighs, and looks away. _"You know how I am with this stuff,"_ he mutters and pulls his hand away. _"Always say the wrong damn thing and then he shuts down on me."_

 _"I wonder where he picked that up,"_ Jackie says wryly and laughs a little at the face he makes at her. _"I'll talk to him,"_ she promises again. _"But when you come back we're all sitting down together. I'm not going to let you squirm your way out of this. Desmond respects you, Bill, even when he doesn't talk to you, your word means a lot to him."_

William bows his head for a moment and then nods. _"I'll… try and make it quick then,"_ he says.

Desmond turns his eyes away from the screen as his father reaches over to, apparently, kiss his wife. Well, he wouldn't even remember that, he wasn't there. What difference does it make that they were apparently a functional couple behind locked doors, if he wasn't ever really part of that…

The scene changes – bird song sounding through the speakers accompanied by the rustling of leaves in breeze. Desmond looks up and to the laptop to see the woods – the path they'd taken during exercise. Around the hill, zigzagging amidst the trees. There had been no dirt road there – just the worn down path trodden hard and smooth by many feet over the many years.

Desmond almost snorts as he sees one of the many, almost literal milestones – a boulder without markings, which the path wound around. It's how they measured the distance they'd walked or ran along those paths – first rock, second rock, third rock… just got to get to the fourth rock, and you were halfway through the run and could turn back.

Fuck, he'd learned to hate that damn path and those rocks. He saw them every day like clockwork. Running or walking, it didn't matter – so as long as you left your mark on the book waiting at the fourth rock every morning and didn't miss out on rest of the training afterwards.

In this vision, they're walking down the path – all three of them. Jackie is leading them at a steady pace, William holding the rear. As Jackie looks back, Desmond can see himself – walking with his shoulders hunched and hands shoved into his pockets of a hooded vest. He looks… not that much younger than he is now, really. Fifteen maybe.

"Do you remember this?" Jackie asks on the chair.

Desmond swallows and shakes his head. "Not really," he admits.

Jackie's lips press together unhappily and on the screen her view moves around as she looks at the forest. _"This is nice, isn't it?"_ she asks through the speakers. _"Nice clean air – no gas stink here. I know the generators are necessary, but sometimes the smell really gets to me."_

 _"I've been thinking about getting us some solar panels,"_ William says. _"They're getting a little cheaper these days, bit more efficient. Maybe a wind generator too, just a small one, just below the tree line. It won't completely erase the need for generators, but we could maybe ease up on them. Save us on gasoline costs in the long run too."_

Desmond isn't sure why, but something about that makes his heart _clench_ painfully.

 _"Ooh, solar panels,"_ Jackie says, glancing backwards. _"How futuristic."_

 _"Well, we're not exactly Amish here,"_ William says with a quiet laugh. _"What do you think, Desmond? A solar panel on our roof – or maybe a whole bank of them on the communal hall…"_

 _"I don't know why you're asking me,"_ Desmond's own voice, distorted by the record and strange to his own ears, says. _"It's not like I have any say to it."_

 _"You will one day,"_ William says, frowning a little now. _"It's your home too, son, and I want to know what you'll think."_

Desmond on the screen rolls his eyes. _"I think you're not going to do it,"_ he says, sounding bored. _"Because that would be visible on satellite view and boy oh boy would that be trouble."_

Desmond arches his eyebrows at his past self. Seriously?

 _"Well, we're already visible from satellites,"_ William says cautiously. _"It isn't so unusual for off-the-grid houses to get renewable power setups, like solar panels. I think we might just manage it without making it look suspicious."_

"Right," Desmond's past self mutters and looks away. "Sure."

William makes a face at his back and then looks over to their point of view, at Jackie. It's… kind of funny but mostly weird to see William making faces at Jackie in some sort of silent communication while Desmond in the memory pointedly ignores them both.

 _"Alright, what do you think we should do then?"_ William asks, looking at Desmond.

Desmond shrugs. _"I don't care,"_ he answers.

 _"Desmond,"_ Jackie says, half warning and half plaintive.

 _"I don't know and I don't care. What's the damn point, you're not going to change anything anyway,"_ Desmond says. _"Either you decide the old setup is fine and do nothing or you decide that changing anything takes too much effort or resources or whatever and you'll just add to what we have, get another generator or whatever. What's the point in even asking?"_

 _"We might, if it's deemed that it will benefit everyone,"_ William says slowly. _"It's worth thinking about."_

 _"Yeah, but why fix what's not broken, right?"_ Desmond mutters.

 _"Well, horses weren't broken, but cars still improved things,"_ Jackie comments. _"_ Not broken _doesn't necessarily mean it can't be better."_

Desmond frowns, running his hand over his chin as he eyes the screen. He can see it on his face, his younger face – he's thinking about it. Thinking about something – it's like a switch has been flicked and he's seen the light. Jackie seems to have noticed it too, because the memory stills there, on that look on his face as he looks around in the woods, a look of revelation on his face.

"Was this when you decided to run?" Jackie asks on the bench.

Probably, Desmond admits to himself silently. Or at least, he probably started thinking about it back then. He can almost see it on his own face, the realisation. Life at the Farm wasn't _broken…_ but that didn't mean it couldn't be better, he'd probably thought.

"Did I put that thought into your head?" Jackie asks quietly, sadly.

Desmond rubs his hands together and looks away, at the empty bed next to him. He kind of _really_ wishes Clay was there right now.

"Why show me that?" Desmond mutters. "I already ran away, rehashing the _why_ doesn't really matter, does it? I'm not going back."

Jackie sighs, and then presses her lips together again, concentrating. The scene slips away, and then changes.

Immediately Desmond knows something's wrong. There's a quality to the memory that wasn't there before – it's colder now, something about the environment looks harder. Something about the angles.

 _"Anything?"_ Jackie asks in the memory, reaching her hand out to a nearby man. _"Did you see_ anything _? Any tracks, any signs – anything?"_

 _"I'm sorry Jackie, it's too dark,"_ the man answers and Desmond tries to remember his name. He lived next to them, but… _"There's nothing and the more we look the worse we ruin whatever tracks there might be. We need to wait until morning."_

 _"But by morning he will be long gone!"_ Jackie cries and then turns, spotting William. _"Bill, Bill, please, tell me you found something!"_

William is pale as he comes into to the beam of the porch light, his face wan and exhausted. _"Not a damn thing,"_ he says and then reaches to grab at Jackie as the view wavers. _"We're going to keep on looking, Jackie, we'll find him. But for now, we at least know he wasn't taken – he ran on his own accord."_

 _"How is that any better?!"_ Jackie demands desperately.

 _"He wasn't kidnapped, Jackie,"_ William says, grabbing at her and staring right into her face – which on the screen looks like he's staring right into a camera – right at Desmond. _"He wasn't kidnapped. He's alone in the woods, yes, but_ alone _is the key term here. So as long as he's alone, Abstergo doesn't have him. We can still find him."_

Jackie lets sound that's halfway to a wail and judging by the way the camera tilts her knees give out. William holds her up though and pulls her into a hug, which from first point view is kind of weird to look at on the screen.

 _"We'll find him, Jackie,"_ William says, his voice shaking. _"We'll find our boy. I swear we'll find him."_

Desmond stares at the screen, squeezing his hands into fists and casts a look at Jackie on the chair. "Are you trying to guilt trip me?" he asks quietly, a little shakily.

Jackie draws a shuddering breath and then the image shudders on the screen and breaks. It takes a long time for another to appear – the black turning into blinding white and then clearing out into shapes, into a window, white walls, curtains, everything blindingly bright, seen at an odd angle – lying down on a bed, Desmond realises, as sound comes through the speakers, a sigh, and then the view turns.

It's a hospital – or a clinic at least. Everything is sterile white, including the chair beside the bed – including the clothes William Miles is wearing as he sits there, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the metal rail of the hospital bed. _"Hey,"_ he whispers, feather soft. _"Hey there. It's alright, it's okay – you're okay, Jacqueline. You're in the clinic. Everything is fine."_

 _"William,"_ Jackie mumbles and then visibly startles. She looks down, her hand, held in his, down the loose front of her hospital gown – her hand coming to her stomach, tugging at the gown – feeling bandages under it. _"W-William, what – how – ?"_

 _"Everything went perfectly,"_ William says gently. _"The whole operation, from start to finish, not a thing out of line – everything is fine. You're fine. The baby is fine."_

 _"Where is he? I want to see him,–"_ Jackie says, and William's hand slips from hers as he rises. _"William, please –!"_

As Desmond watches her awkwardly reach after his father, William goes to a panel by the door and hits a switch there. _"Mr. Miles?"_ comes through a speaker there, a female voice. _"Is something the matter?"_

 _"Jacqueline is awake – can you bring the child in?"_ William says, and Jackie lets out a heavy sigh.

_"Right away, sir."_

The memory is a little skewed, obviously – no time passes at all before the door opened and a woman in a nurse's sleeveless shirt comes in, carting with her a hospital crib. Everything about is a little too bright, like one of those old movies where stuff was filmed all just a little blurry to make it seem softer and beautiful – lens diffusion, Desmond thinks it's called. Jackie's memories are like that, diffused and glowing and little out of focus.

The baby is dressed in all white, white little onesie, white hat and tiny white socks, and they all but radiate, blurry and nearly blinding.

Jackie is crying.

 _"Would you like to pick him up?"_ the nurse offers William who hurriedly backs away.

 _"No, not me,"_ he says quickly, looking almost horrified. _"No, no, I'd probably drop him –"_

 _"Give him here, please, I want to hold him, I just want to hold him,"_ Jackie says, reaching, and at William's nod the nurse gently picks baby Desmond up and comes to Jackie's side. It's an odd angle, all of it, seen from Jackie's point of view, as they lay the half asleep baby on her chest, little hand curling towards his face as his cheek is rested very gently on Jackie's chest.

 _"Oh,"_ Jackie whispers shakily, her breathing hitching. _"Oh, he's beautiful. Oh, god, look at him, he's so beautiful –"_

William comes to her side as the nurse backs away, pulling a chair closer and leaning in to look. It seems to take effort for Jackie to look away, and when she does, there is a look on William's face Desmond has never seen – open wonder and joy, so much so that he looks kind of like he's been stricken dumb.

Desmond grits his teeth, as Jackie turns to look at the baby again. The audio seems to focus as Jackie descends into a sort of tunnel vision of awareness, everything else fading away until all there is coming from the speakers are little huffs of breath as the baby version of Desmond breathes in his sleep.

 _"W-William I know – I know we agreed that you'd take care of everything_ ," Jackie whispers through the speakers. _"But I – I want to be part of his life. I want to – I can't just… I'm sorry, I don't think I can just bow out, I…"_

 _"Yes, yes, of course,"_ William says softly. _"Anything you want."_ And then, after a moment of soft focus silence, he adds. _"I think that you should call me Bill, Jacqueline."_

 _"Bill,"_ she agrees, and strokes a finger over the baby's cheek. _"Call me Jackie."_

Desmond bows his and wipes fingers over his eyes. _Guilt tripping_ he thinks firmly. She's trying to guilt trip him like the best of them – but damn it, it's kind of working. He can't even remember if there had ever been any baby pictures of him – they were Assassin's after all, pictures were evidence, but…

God _damn_.

There's a noise on the speakers and Desmond looks up, expecting another guilt trip image to appear, maybe Jackie and Bill settling down or something awfully domestic and soft – but no, it's not. As he watches, the image of the hospital clinic breaks apart like a shattering glass, and suddenly Bill is replaced with Altaïr, and Desmond is gone from Jackie's chest – she's suddenly not even lying down anymore. The angle is off, she's looking down at the bed under her as much as she's looking up from – it's like she's on her knees on the bed.

Of course, it's not Jackie anymore. Maria is on her knees on the bed, twisting the bed covers in her sweaty hands and gasping – and underneath her, the bedclothes are all soaked in a bloody mess of what Desmond assumes is the afterbirth.

Altaïr is holding a baby in his hands, a newborn still wet and messy with umbilical only freshly cut and tied – by him, judging by the looks of him. His fingers splayed out to support the baby's neck and back and the child is wailing, writhing it's little body weakly in his hands. Altaïr is grinning at the kid like a complete damn madman.

 _"Are you alright, Maria?"_ he asks, not looking away from the child.

 _"I'll – live,"_ she pants, her eyes on the child. _"Listen to him,"_ she says then, in tones of wonder and relief and presses her cheek wearily on the bed. _"How he_ cries _."_

 _"Yes, how he cries,"_ Altaïr says with a tone of nearly gleeful triumph. _"Shout, my son, as loud as you can,"_ he urges the baby on. _"Let the world know your strength."_

Jackie lets out a noise and tears the Truth headset off, the image disappearing into blackness before bleeding into flickering code. Desmond breathes in and out and wipes at his eyes again, feeling a little shaky, while Jackie runs her hands over her face and breathes in and out quickly, probably trying to push the bleed aside.

"Are you alright?" Desmond asks, his voice a little shaky.

"Very glad I got a C-section," Jackie admits, one hand on her belly while the other rubs over her eyes. "Association brings her forward. We were both so afraid, and so glad and…" she trail off shaking her head before looking up, blinking as she eyes the Truth headset. "That machine is… really something."

Desmond hums in agreement and reaches out to turn the laptop screen down. "Yeah, it is," he agrees and squeezes his hands into fists.

Jackie is quiet for a moment, leaning forward and just breathing until she feels bit more stable. "I wanted to show you more," she murmurs and rubs at her forehead. "I wanted to show you the things you didn't see. The effort we put in. The good we did."

Desmond says nothing, looking at the floor instead. "I think I got the idea," he sighs eventually and runs his hand through his hair. "The Truth is flawed though. It doesn't actually show the truth – just what we think is the truth. Our impressions of it – our thoughts of it. It’s just… part of the picture."

And people are hopelessly fallible, he's starting to realise.

_What is a man..._

What are you supposed to do when you realise you can't trust your own memories?

Jackie sighs and nods, staring at nothing for a long moment. "Is there anything I can show you that would convince you to go back home?" she asks then, looking at him. "Your father and I, we love you so much. You know we do. Will you please go home with me?"

Desmond looks up at her, at her slightly sweaty, weary face. "No," he says simply.

"Clay could come too," Jackie offers softly. "I'm sure we could make it work. He knows so much, he's obviously a very brilliant young man, and –"

"No, Mom, it's not going to happen," Desmond says quietly. "I'm sorry, but it's just not. I'm not going back. I'm not giving any of this up."

"But you don't even _have_ –" Jackie starts and then stops and blows out a breath. "I'm sure we could compromise somehow – the Farm is undoubtedly gone now, and with what you know and can do now it won't be like it used to be. You could – " she grimaces. "I'm sure you could work as fully-fledged Assassin now, or if not immediately, then very soon. Clay could be with you – I'm sure we could make it work."

Desmond just stares at her silently and says nothing.

"Will you please at least think about it?" she asks. "Just think about it for a day or two. Please?"

Desmond sighs and hangs his head, scratching at his neck. He feels all tense, like he's balancing on a cliff, about to fall over. Into safety, or into the abyss, he doesn't know – but something has to give. "Alright," he says finally. "I'll think about it. But I'm not promising anything."

"I'll take it. Thank you," Jackie sighs and stands up. "I'll, uh… I'm going to go to the Villa now, if you don't mind."

"Why?" Desmond asks, frowning a little.

"It… puts things into perspective," she says simply and turns to the door.

Desmond watches her go and then hangs his head as the door closes after her.

Perspective, he thinks. Yeah, he'd like some of that too, please.

* * *

 

"Was it _that_ bad?" Clay asks later, after finding Desmond alone in the bedroom, in the middle of a set of push-ups.

Desmond lowers his weight and then pushes it up to straight arms, holding himself in a straight plank. "I don't know," he admits, staring at the carpet. "It wasn't… I don't know," he mutters and then lowers himself down again.

He'd started doing some little bit of physical exercise in the first hideout after running away from Abstergo with Lucy, trying to somewhat half-heartedly get into shape like she'd wanted him to,  trying to adjust his body to the skills Ezio was giving him. It worked to some extent, and it didn't hurt that he was decently fit even before – thanks to those good damn genes, probably – but it was nothing like this.

This young body feels pretty might weightless – he can do a set of fifty without breaking a sweat, now, when last even at his best he could barely manage thirty.

"She try and convince you that life at the Farm was all hunky dory?" Clay asks and slips down to sit on the floor beside him, watching him half warily and half appreciatively.

"I don't know what she was trying to show me," Desmond mutters, lowering himself slowly until his nose is against the floor and his chest is brushing against the carpet. "I don't think she knew either. Mostly she was kind of just trying to guilt trip me."

"Did it work?"

Desmond blows out a breath and pushes him up in straight arms again. "Kind of," he admits.

Clay says nothing for a moment as Desmond goes couple more slow push-up, before kicking up the pace again.

"Thing is, I remember changing my mind about the Farm, you know?" Desmond says finally. "Towards the end, I changed my mind – I _regretted_ leaving the place, I remember that. I even asked Dad – fuck," he mutters and stops, glaring at the floor. "I remember that, but at the same time I'm – I don't even know. Angry? At least annoyed. Definitely frustrated."

He does another push-up and then another, while Clay just watches. "I don't want to go back," he mutters. "I don't. But I did once, I really did, I wanted to go back so badly. Fuck, I don't know what's wrong with me. It feels like I'm swinging side to side, like I can't… fucking trust myself."

And his memories are a mess, it turns out. He still holds onto the bad more than what little of the good he remembers – but maybe there had been more good there? It just hadn't mattered to him as much – maybe he'd just concentrated on the bad, maybe… maybe, after all, it was all he wanted to remember, to justify his actions.

The Farm was still fucking fucked up, no matter what – it's still a borderline cult, and what happened there would be called child abuse if any legal child services ever ran into the place, but…

But how else could Assassins, constantly in mortal danger, raise their children?

Desmond thinks of Altaïr, who probably taught his sons to wield knives the moment they could hold them, and grimaces. He doesn't know how Ezio did with his kids, the line passes through the oldest one, but… he doubts he forewent their self-defence training completely either. For Assassins, for kids of Assassins… that's just as good as a death sentence, isn't it?

Ezio's parents did a lot better with their kids, though. An assassin family living happily and freely… until they weren't.

God _damnit_.

Clay hums thoughtfully and then stretches out his legs, sticking them under Desmond's stomach just as he pushes up. Desmond looks down at them and then turns to look at him. "Remember what I asked you back on the Island?" Clay says. "I asked you if you regretted things."

"Yeah, I remember," Desmond answers, holding himself still. "I said yes and you thanked me for making sense." Which to him had made no damn sense at all.

"It was kind of a test," Clay says and shrugs. "Human minds change – we get new opinions, alter our old ones. Being stuck in the Animus can fuck up that process though – you get literally stuck in your way of thinking, and can't change it, get trapped in the patterns. You could change your mind, though, and you still can. Congratulations – you have free will."

Desmond frowns. "I don't get what you're saying," he says slowly. "You're not telling me to go back to the Farm. At least you damn well better not be."

Clay shrugs, watching him with noncommittal expression – whatever his opinion is, he's not giving it away.

Desmond turns to look at the floor again, scowling. "I didn't go back for a reason," he says. "I don't trust them. I – they are a better option than Abstergo, but we're better without them. I know we're better without them. Aren't we?" he demands, the question aimed at the floor. "We know what's coming, adding them to the mix would just… mess things up."

Clay says nothing and with a sigh Desmond lowers himself down, right on top of Clay's legs. It's a little uncomfortable with Clay's calves under his belly, but whatever. "I don't want to go back," he says at the floor. "I know what my dad became – whatever he is right now, it doesn't matter. I know what he becomes."

"Mm," Clay answers, still noncommittal.

"And maybe that was only because I ran away and Mom got captured, but… shit," Desmond mutters, letting his weight drop completely and leaning his elbows onto the floor so that he can run his hands over his slightly sweaty face. He's been doing a lot more than fifty push-ups this time. "Shit. I don't know."

"I have a theory about why you, you know," Clay makes a spinning motion beside his head. "Have issues up here."

Desmond looks at him. "I'm not crazy," he says flatly.

"Debatable, but that's not what I mean," Clay says and leans away from the wall behind his back, leaning towards him instead, leaning half over him. "You got all sort of emotional turmoil going on, right? Lots of doubt. Annoyance. Bit of anger. Frustration. Probably some shame, too, right?"

Desmond sighs in annoyance, even as he leans so that Clay can get access to his neck, if he wants it.

"Guess what?" Clay says, whispering it behind his ear like it's a secret. "All that stuff comes with being a teenager."

Desmond blinks at him incredulously. Then he gets it. "Oh, you gotta be kidding me," he groans and covers his face in his hands. "Fuck. That's _bullshit_."

Clay laughs and presses a kiss in the back of his neck. "Sadly, physiology still affects us. Adult mind, but still a teenager brain, with all that juicy chaotic hormonal activity," he says. "And there's a reason why teenagers act out the way they do, and that's not always because of what they think. Sometimes it's just wacky neurotransmitters. I should know – mine are even more fucked up than yours probably are."

"Jesus Christ," Desmond groans. "I do not need this right now."

Clay huffs another laugh and then tugs at his shoulder, urging him to turn. Desmond grunts as his knee digs into his solar plexus, but he goes, until he's lying more or less on top of Clay, his face planted into his chest. "We're not machines, Desmond," Clay says. "And that's a good damn thing."

"Would be easier if we were, though," Desmond grumbles into his chest and then tilts his head up, to look at Clay. "We are the stories we live," he says and leans his chin on Clay's chest. "The tales we tell ourselves."

"You remember," Clay says quietly.

"Yeah. But if I can't trust my memories to be accurate or my brain to function sensibly, then who the hell am I?" Desmond asks. "What am I, Clay?"

Clay huffs out a breath and gives him a look. "You, Desmond Miles, are a human being," he says. "Flawed and imperfect just like the rest of us."

"Not so perfect, then," Desmond says and looks at him, while Clay's arms wander around his back. "What do you want to do, Clay?" he then says. "What would you choose?"

"Hmm," Clay says and settles his arms around Desmond's back, clasping his hands there. "Is sex on the table?"

Desmond lets out a laugh and presses his face back to Clay's chest. "Be serious."

"I _am_ , I'm deadly serious," Clay answers and Desmond pinches at his sides, hard. Clay yelps and jerks under him, his whole body jostling and with a grin Desmond winds his arms around his waist, riding it out as their legs tangle together.

"I really want to know though," Desmond says, even while worming his fingers under the edge of Clay's shirt and on to the bare skin of his back. "I want to know what you want to do. Would you like to go back, become an Assassin?"

Clay's hands roam over his back for a moment and then still in the back of his neck. "No," he says finally. "I don't want to go back. They fight the good fight, but they used me badly. Whether it was intentional not, whether it was because of William or Lucy or Juno… I ended up insane and dead because of them."

Desmond says nothing for a moment, listening to the steady pound of Clay's heart under his ear. "Yeah," he says darkly and runs his hands up and down Clay's back under his shirt, feeling out Clay's spine, the muscles in tension, the shape of his waist… "They're never getting a chance to do that again. Not _ever_."

He can feel Clay's swallow, feel his fingers tighten on his neck. Then Clay runs them up and through Desmond's hair, tiling his head up a little. "I fucking love you, Seventeen," he says quietly. "Like, at unhealthy levels."

"I fucking love you too, Sixteen," Desmond answers with an amused smile and leans in. "So… about that sex…"


	16. Chapter 16

It's time for Missus Miles to go.

She is starting to affect Desmond's calm in ways that go beyond just being negative – making him question not just his own decisions but his very sanity and personality. Clay has gone down that road before, sitting by helplessly as Abstergo drained his mind and Juno danced on the shreds of his soul, questioning who and what he was and… and he will not let Desmond go through that, especially not in the hands of his own fucking family.

They are a little un-tethered in their sanity, now, both of them. That's partially because of the Animus itself – but more so it's a side effect of going through the Nexus points of their minds and lives. That part of them is now artificial, in a way – they rebuild their own minds from inside out, the result isn't exactly organic. It makes it shaky, at times – gives them weak points, fault lines. They have their support structures built up, and so as long as those pillars stand firm they're more or less fine… but like the Abstergo Tower, all you needed was a good blow to the right point, and it all goes collapsing down.

Desmond is having his pillars shaken. Jackie doesn't know what she's doing to him, probably wouldn't be doing it if she did… but she's doing damage either way.

Clay has this realisation quietly while Desmond sleeps the sleep of the deeply satisfied in his arms, completely dead to the world. He's all soft and loose, hint of sweat and the smell sex on his skin, it is altogether _lovely_ but all Clay can think about is the state of his head. He doesn't like Desmond doubting himself. He doesn't like it at all.

They don't know what the fuck they're doing most of the time, but Desmond is, usually, firm on what is right and wrong for them. That's something Clay would like to keep on relying on in the future – because fuck if he has any clue what's right. They're planning on a lot of moves for the future, most of which – all of which actually – amount to some form of fraud and… and who knows what happens afterwards.

They need some sort of stability and Jackie being here robs them of it.

Clay stares down at Desmond's sleepy, relaxed face, stroking a thumb across his cheek. Desmond doesn't so much as twitch as Clay eases his head back and off his shoulder and onto the pillow instead. Extracting the rest of his body from under Desmond takes some more work, but he somehow manages it without waking him. Good. After the day he's had – several days now, since Abstergo Tower – Desmond needs all the restful sleep he can get.

Clay stretches out once he's up, arching his back a little – contemplating for a moment doing some of those stretches Desmond does. He really should be getting started on the physical training aspect – you never know when it might come in handy.

Instead, he walks over to the Truth, grabbing a towel from where one hangs on a back of a chair and throwing it onto the armchair before sitting down on top of it, too damn lazy to put on clothes. The laptop, always on, thrums into life as he opens it and starts working.

It would take something special to get rid of Jackie. Especially to get rid of her in a way that wouldn't fuck Desmond up even further. It has to be… reasonable and it has to be severe enough to count. The potential for backfire is too great.

Thankfully so far she hasn't been that stupid. Emotional and obstinate, sure, and kind of delusional – definitely somewhat naïve… but she seems to honestly want to come to a compromise with Desmond and not force his hand. Otherwise, she would've already called for the Assassins and she hasn't.

Clay would know if she did – it would be on Hephaestus and Erudito would be all over it by now, and they aren't. The most they are concerned with is figuring out who did the Abstergo Tower bombing and like Abstergo itself, they have no clue – the Assassins don't even know what the tiny insignificant facility in Italy of all places was for. Poor Brotherhood, still two steps behind.

One has to hand it to William Miles of future. He turned into a complete bastard after the loss of Desmond and Jackie… but he also got shit done, sacrificing people left and right. Ruthless and heartless but effective, if not enough to ever fully justify it.

Clay browses through Hephaestus for a moment before easing out of the network, closing down the connection completely and unplugging the Ethernet cable. After taking a moment to go through what he needed to do next, he opens up code screen and starts writing a new algorithm. Thankfully, half of it's already there – he already has the Truth. What he needs now… is a translation of Truth.

And one _hell_ of a hypnosis routine.

"… on scale one to sixteen, how dumb is this?" Clay mutters under his breath, casting a glance towards Desmond. After taking a moment to breathe, he reaches back for the case of stolen drugs, shuffling through them and selecting the right one and grabbing a syringe as he does. He won't need much for this – this won't be a complete dive. More of a… technologically induced case of sub-space.

He goes through the cleaning process meticulously – especially so since he's still covered in after sex mess here and there. He doesn't want a damn infection on top of everything else, really would not improve their lives one bit at this point.

Once he's sure he's cleaned up properly, Clay rips the syringe package open as quietly as he can before taking the bottle and measuring the psychedelic carefully. Then he lifts his bare leg to his knee, to inject the drug into the vein on his leg. Wincing at the sting of it and the ensuing feeling of _oncoming weirdness_ , Clay quickly puts the needle away and reaches for the headset.

He has just enough time to hit enter on the laptop, before the drug hits him.

In front of his eyes there is a starburst of code and numbers, their light blaring at him like sci-fi movie wormhole, psychedelic even without the actual psychedelics. Like coming home the man who was once an AI sinks into their flow and lets himself be carried off.

Everything is reducible to numbers.

Everything can be turned into data.

Everything is…

* * *

 

"Clay? Clay! Come on, Clay, wake up, there you go…"

It takes an effort to open his eyes – they feel grimy and burn as if he's held them open for too long. Actually, he probably has. Desmond is there in front of him, naked and strange, his face in odd light – the laptop, Clay realises slowly, the only light there is the laptop.

The code is gone.

"There you go," Desmond says, looking at him, his hand on Clay's neck, feeling his pulse – he's taken the headset off, it's hovering above them, loose and inactive. The laptop's been set aside too. "I don't know what the hell you were doing, but you passed out during it. I thought we were supposed to _not_ do dives unless the other was there, watching?"

"Mmhm," Clay answers, clumsily reaching out for Desmond and only partially accidentally sticking his hand between his legs, winding his fingers around his thigh from inside. " _Seventeen_ ," he mumbles and leans forward and into Desmond, planting his face into his welcoming, warm midriff.

He feels like he's coming apart at the seams.

It's been like… twice the length of the solar system, or something. Clay's barely winding down and his body feels a little distant, his brain like a whirlpool in empty vacuum of space. It takes a long while to remember what he's doing and who he is – full on living man, rather than just the sum of his code. Desmond's body, warm and firm and so _real_ , helps.

Clay bites at his skin with a sigh, and Desmond lets out a quiet gasp and then pushes Clay's head back. "Hey, ow," he complains. "Are you all there yet?"

"Mmhmm," Clay answers. "Getting there. Lemme make out with your belly button."

"After you bit me? Not a chance in hell," Desmond scoffs and then crouches down beside him, peering at him warily. "What the hell did you do? Dive doesn't usually make you this loopy."

"Wasn't a dive," Clay says and leans forward until he can snap his forehead to Desmond's, like two magnets meeting, a perfect match. Maybe if he gets close enough, Desmond's Zen will smooth out the raging storm in his head. He's always so balanced, it's infuriating – his stupid pirate boat needs to be rocked, like, sexually.

"Clay," Desmond says slowly, clearly, and grabs at his knee, squeezing hard enough to sting. " _Sixteen_. What did you do?"

Clay looks down, confused about how he's feeling Desmond touching him.

He's naked. Nice.

Desmond is also naked. _Nicer_.

"Focus," Desmond says firmly.

Rubbing his eyes, Clay checks the clock – except the laptop isn't there. "Program," Clay says, blinks, and then tries again. "Laptop. I need the laptop."

Desmond looks at him warily and then reaches to get it from the bed, handing it over. Leaning his head against Desmond's, Clay settles it onto his lap and opens it up to check how long the program's been running. Twenty four minutes. That's… not actually that bad, all things considered. Though no wonder he feels all addled and sort of leaking, like there are bits of him draining to the bottom of his feet. Liquidy, that's how he feels.  Like DNA data _soup_.

Sighing at the impatient noise Desmond makes, Clay taps a few keys, to end the suggestive hypnosis routine and see what he actually got out of the whole thing.

Fifty-seven gigabytes worth of data sits highly packed on his laptop. Images, clips of videos, countless and countless documents of statistics, designs, blueprints – email lists of all things. Personal and public communications, company memos, missives from higher-ups, progress reports…. Older things too, transcripts and audio files, black and white photos, some from all the way back to Abstergo's beginnings and before. More recent security footage too, data on Animus experiments mostly – nameless subjects seen through grainy camera lenses.

Poor poor Daniel Cross, Clay thinks and leans his head back against Desmond with a heavy sigh, his whole body feeling a little like it had been run over by a bulldozer. He'll need to shuffle through it all, remove everything post-2003, anything that isn't supposed to exist yet, but…

"I downloaded data from my head," he mumbles. "Everything I know about Abstergo – everything Codey-me downloaded from their servers. It's still mostly code. Can't access it normally though. So, download."

Desmond blinks and nudges his forehead against his to turn his head so that their eyes meet. "You – can do that?"

"Takes a bit of work to get your brain light up the right way to do it – it's like… you have to go through everything and copy it real time. Even my brain can't process data as packets," Clay sighs and closes his eyes, nuzzling onto Desmond's temple. He smells all musty from sleep, all soft and warm and cosy… "But yeah, basically the same as regular Truth use, just… lot more of it all at once."

"Right," Desmond says, reaching to touch his cheek. "Are you alright?"

"Loopy," Clay says. "Probably gotta sleep it off. But I'm fine, just… woosh," he says and mimics a motion which is roughly supposed to depict the feeling of having a hurricane blowing through his head. "I'm fine," he says then.

"Okay, good," Desmond says, catching his hand before he smacks it into the Truth, and gripping it in his own. "And why did you download stuff from your head?"

"Bargaining chip," Clay says.

"… for what?" Desmond asks slowly.

Clay blinks at him. "I know a _lot_ about Abstergo," he says plainly. "Give it all to Jackie, to make her go away. But not all of it – there's stuff about future there, gotta clean it up first. Make it all time-appropriate and tidy."

"To make her go away, what?" Desmond's eyes widen a little at that. "Clay," he says then.

"She's messing up your calm," Clay mumbles. "But she won't leave for no reason. Gotta give her a damn good reason – this is a damn good reason. She's an Assassin, can't turn down this. Also," he says and points a finger at Desmond, at his face, flicking his nose gently. "Also, proof that we know our shit. Gift and demonstration."

Desmond stares at him for a moment, his mouth gaping open a little. "You complete fucking lunatic. You should've – asked first," he says then and lets out a breath. "Don't do this sort of shit without telling me first."

"I'm fine," Clay says and closes his eyes. "I wasn't ever in any danger. It's just – a hell of a trip." And Desmond was supposed to be asleep.

Desmond sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. "Do not make me find you passed out and drugged up again, almost had a damn heart attack," he sighs and then stands up. "Come on, back to bed with you."

"Mm not tonight, honey, I think I have a headache," Clay says while letting Desmond take the laptop again.

"I bet you do," Desmond agrees with a helpless little laugh and reaches out both hands for him. "Come on, up you get and to bed."

Clay takes his hands, and as Desmond pulls him up he leans forward and throws his arms around him. Desmond is still so small, he thinks with wonder. Hard elbows and tight shoulders, so deliciously skinny and wiry and strong and small and –

"I want you to be okay," Clay mumbles against his neck while running his hands up and down Desmond's back. "One of us has to be. And I can't stand watching her mess you up. She has to go, Desmond."

Desmond sighs against his shoulder. "Okay," he whispers and winds his arms around Clay's waist. His whole body is warm, Clay finds – or maybe his own his chilly. Everything feels sore and cold, except Desmond, who's like a radiator. "Okay," Desmond says again.

Clay lets himself be steered into the bed and when Desmond tips him over and into it, Clay drags him down with him. Desmond lets out muffled _oof_ as all air escapes his lungs – or maybe that's Clay. It doesn't matter, because Desmond lays down right on top of him, all naked and warm. Right where he should be.

"Tomorrow, I'm going to be getting rid of the drugs," Desmond says against his cheek. "We already got everything we need to start with. No more drug-induced lucid dreaming and deep dives."

"Probably a good idea," Clay agrees, and then he's out like a light.

* * *

 

Desmond is still there when Clay wakes up, sitting in the bed with Clay's head pressed against his thigh while he works on the computer. Clay peers up at him and then sighs.

"How are you feeling?" Desmond asks, not taking his eyes off from the laptop.

"Better," Clay admits and stretches a little, feeling a crick in his neck and a sudden spike of pain through his head, as moving jostles everything. "Ugh, there's the headache. Do we have any ibuprofen left?"

"On the table," Desmond says.

With a groan Clay rolls to his back and looks to the bedside table. There sits a cut off piece of a tablet strip and glass of water. "I love you," Clay sighs an reaches for both, cracking the pills out of their cases and throwing them back before downing the whole glass. Then he lies back down and squirms his way to Desmond's side. "What are you doing?"

"Going through everything you downloaded," Desmond says and rubs s a hand over his chin, looking thoughtful. "There's… a lot here."

Clay hums, pressing his forehead against Desmond's bare hip. "There damn well should be, I died for that stuff," he murmurs and closes his eyes. "And kept hoarding incriminating data even after as if that made any fucking difference."

Desmond's hand comes down to his neck, his fingers brushing along his spine. "Well, maybe now it will," Desmond says quietly. "I don't think it's enough to take Abstergo down, but… damn, some of this stuff will incriminate the hell out of them."

"Is it enough to buy us freedom from parental supervision?"

Desmond says nothing for a moment, his fingers brushing up and down before he places the flat of his palm between Clay's shoulder blades. "How will we hand it over?" he asks. "I'm assuming we're not just going to give it to her. Not much of a bargaining chip that way."

"I'll encrypt it, give her the encrypted files and once she's back in the fold of the Brotherhood, I'll send her the decryption keys," Clay says and tilts his head to look at Desmond. "And maybe we'll break it into chunks and so as long as she and the Assassin's keep their distance, we'll keep sending them more info. Whichever you think will work the best."

Desmond lets out a sigh and leans back, setting the laptop aside. "Yeah, that might do it," he says. "Though if they think they can get all of it straight from the source, they might come after us just for the data…" he grimaces. "I don't know."

Clay presses his cheek against Desmond's thigh, looking up at him. "Another idea I had was just handing them the Apple of Eden," he says. "That would definitely buy us freedom. And save us the fucking hassle of dealing with it, and Juno."

Desmond frowns and considers it for a moment. "No," he then says. "We might need it."

"Yeah," Clay agrees. "I thought so."

They're quiet for a moment, Clay closing his eyes and enjoying the petting he's getting, while slowly the painkillers start to take effect. "It'll take me about a day to go through the files, remove stuff about future," he says finally. "In the meanwhile you should start buttering Jackie up to the notion of leaving."

"Yeah," Desmond says and shifts on the bed, easing his way down so that they're on the same level, Desmond hovering over Clay, propped up by one elbow. "Thank you," he says quietly, stroking Clay's cheek.

Clay tilts his head and kisses Desmond's wrist. "Is there any stuff you want to keep away from them?" he asks. "There's a lot in there about the Pieces of Eden."

"Locations of ones Abstergo doesn't already have?"

"That would be part of the incriminating _future_ stuff, so no, I will take all that off."

"Then I think it's probably fine," Desmond says. "I trust your judgment here, you know more about what is and isn't safe to share. Just make the first packet about the Animus, alright? Mom's gonna need it, probably."

"It might end up with the Assassins building their own," Clay comments warningly.

Desmond hesitates, stroking his thumb down Clay's cheek. "Well, if they do, it's better they have all the facts," he says. "Or the current facts anyway. Abstergo already has this tech – the Assassins might as well get an early access to it too, level that playing field a little."

"Okay," Clay agrees.

Desmond stares down at him for a moment and then leans down. Clay meets him halfway, making a noise at the sheer level of _morning breath_ going on, but leaning in regardless. It's a very brief kiss, over far too soon, and then Desmond is getting up and heading for the shower, Clay looking after him with appreciation.

Maybe, once Jackie is gone, they could finally have some proper fucking sex. Handjobs are well and good and nothing will beat having Desmond pretty much hump him into the mattress, but really… there's a whole world of anal sex waiting and Clay can't wait to get there. Maybe via a blowjob or two along the way. Hmm.

Stretching his arms out with a groan, Clay sighs and peers up at the ceiling. In the bathroom shower starts running and for a moment Clay contemplates joining Desmond there. Then he turns to the laptop instead, pulling it over and peering at what Desmond had been perusing on the files.

Warren Vidic's colleagues, it looks like. Looking for a potential next head of the Animus Project? Interesting. Something to ask him about later.

For now, he has fifty-seven gigabytes of data to comb through. It's gonna be a fun day.

* * *

 

Desmond heads out somewhere with Jackie, probably to the Auditore Villa. Clay takes a moment to glance over Hephaestus Network just in case, but they're still trying to get intel on the Abstergo Tower bombing. This time though, they have something.

In the email to William Miles, there are attachments – a couple of photos and copy of an email belonging to some Abstergo inspector. It lists chemicals and residues found _at the site_ , listing potential sources – and then the image. A busted up, familiar looking detonator, recovered from the site. _"… from this we can assume that explosives used in the demolition were at least mostly comprised of PEC-2241 with the model ARD-3 type detonator…"_ the inspector writes.

Well, they'd figured that would be found out pretty fast. There was never any question about hiding what bombs were used in the supposed demolition – plastic explosives tend to have a signature residue to them which makes identifying the source easy.

It's kind of fun to see how the Assassins flail about it, though. "It was their own explosive," the Assassin who found the email writes to William. "Whoever did this, they did it with Abstergo's own bombs."

That revelation has lit up the whole network. Is it a new player or disgruntled Abstergo Employee, a terrorist cell, aliens…? Poor sons of bitches have no idea.

Then Clay goes through few more emails, but there is nothing on Jackie anywhere to be seen – the latest is a report from some operative working in Abstergo who added a line into their report, _"No sign of Jacqueline Miles, will keep on looking,"_ and that's all. She hasn't phoned home.

Good.

With a deep breath, Clay turns away from the network and to his data instead. Time to start producing chips.

* * *

 

Desmond comes back after several hours, looking a little tense and unhappy, but determined. Clay looks at him over the laptop screen and then leans in. "I take it didn't go well," he asks, while Desmond sits on the edge of the bed. "How's mother dearest, then?"

Desmond doesn't answer at first, looking down at his hands for a moment, spreading out his fingers and rubbing along the wrist. "Not happy," he admits. "Do you have the packet?"

"The first four are ready to go," Clay says. "The rest will take a bit longer, but I got the first four cleaned and bundled and encrypted."

Desmond nods. "Okay. Put the first one on a memory stick and then get cleaned up and dressed. We're going out."

"Not on a fun sort of date I'm assuming," Clay says even as he reaches for the laptop bag to grab a memory stick from it. He plugs it right in and begins transferring data. "Should we pack our bags too?"

Desmond considers it and then sighs. "Might not be a bad idea," he admits and turns to look at Clay. "Whatever happens now… it's probably time we head out of Italy. We can do that with our Visas already, right? The Euro-zone is already all open for travel with the right Visa, right?"

"Yeah, should be," Clay says and looks up from the laptop. "Depends on where you want to go. France?"

Desmond looks away, at the door. "I'll tell you later," he says warily and the sighs. "Go have a shower. I'll pack our things – anything I should know before wrapping the Truth up?"

"It should fold in pretty easy," Clay says, waits until the transfer is complete, and then unplugs the stick. Folding the laptop up, Clay stands up from the bed and hands the memory stick with the first data packet over to Desmond. "Just don't force it – though if you do break it, I can probably fix it."

"Right," Desmond says and turns to do just that. Clay watches his tense back for a moment and then decides that Desmond probably doesn't want to talk about it, and turns to the shower instead.

All their things are squared away once he gets out, and Desmond has even ripped the sheets off the bed, bundling them up for Nora and Fabia to wash. Clay gives them a sad look – he really wanted to have more sex on that bed. Desmond looks at the bed pretty much the same.

"Next time we come back here," Desmond says firmly. "It'll be to buy the Auditore Villa."

"Damn straight," Clay says and runs his hands through his damp hair. Then he turns to Desmond, looking him over. No point asking him if he's fine – he's not. "What's the plan?"

Desmond takes a breath. "Let's go have dinner."

* * *

 

Jackie is not happy either.

They're back in the single restaurant of Monteriggioni, where they've become pretty much regulars at this point. The manager – Giraldo – greets them warmly and so do few of the locals sitting around watching the TV – Desmond, Clay knows, has made a surprising amount of if not outright friends then at least fond acquaintances. Having such open fondness for the place has warmed people up to Desmond, fast.

Though Clay thinks a lot of Monteriggioni probably think Desmond is also a complete weirdo. What are you supposed to think when a foreigner comes in and falls in love with a rundown down little commune, after all?

"Let's sit outside," Desmond says, ushering Jackie to the balcony, to their usual seat in the corner – which has a view of the community garden, now in full bloom. Clay grabs a couple of menus on his way – he hasn't eaten anything all day – and they sit down to look through them.

For a while, no one talks and it's tense and awkward. Clay looks between Desmond and Jackie, who is staring at her son with a mixture of grief and beseeching, while Desmond looks down at the menu and doesn't meet her eyes.

"Desmond," Jackie says finally, opening her mouth and then closing it with a frustrated sigh. She casts a look at Clay which implies that this is his fault and also he should help her, which he meets with arched brows.

As mothers go, Jackie Miles is not the worst one Clay has ever seen. Hell, his own mother walked away from him, leaving him to his father's care when she could no longer handle Harold Kaczmarek's domineering ways. At least Jackie cares enough to try. And maybe she has that right – in her eyes, Desmond is only sixteen, she doesn't know any better…

But she's still doing far more damage than good, with her persuasive methods bordering on manipulative. And Desmond, while not weak, has a particular fault line right there. After what Juno had done…

"Won't you please reconsider?" Jackie asks quietly.

"No," Desmond says and sets the menu down. "I'm sorry."

"You're running away again," she says quietly. "You're just… running away."

"Probably," Desmond says, though the words have an impact on him. "But I did it for a reason two months ago, and I'm doing it for a reason now."

"But we never meant to –" Jackie starts to say and then grimaces. "It was all a terrible misunderstanding, surely you see that now. I'm sure we can work it out, settle down in a way that works better for you – Desmond, I don't want you to be unhappy. If you just came back, I'm sure we could –"

Desmond is quietly closing up at the words and Clay decides it's enough. "Here's what would happen, if Desmond went back now," he says. "He'd be mistrusted because his personality is different from what people know and expect from your son, and you got some bad experiences with people with tampered psyches, right? So he'd be suspected, probably questioned with varying levels of gentleness and kindness on all he knows and doesn't – while I'd be just flat out interrogated until I gave up everything I knew, or at least enough to satisfy. Brotherhood comes first, right?"

Jackie scowls at him and Desmond looks at him from the corner of his eye, not saying anything, and Clay pushes on. "For days, for weeks, for months we'd be in this interrogation and questioning limbo. Whatever knowledge we could share would be scrutinised, closely, suspiciously. Even when proven correct, there'd still probably be a bit of suspicion. We'd be isolated, set up in some hideout underground, somewhere where we'd be safe and sound and out of harm’s way. Maybe you'd be there with us and then we'd play happy insane family. But unless push came to shove sooner rather than later, it would be years before you people trusted us fully."

Clay arches his brows. "And in that time, we'd be restricted in our access and in our permissions – not allowed to do anything, go anywhere, decide for ourselves… sheltered in a bubble of _out of sight, out of mind_ ," he continues. "Until someone decided we could be useful. Which would probably happen around the same time you managed to build an Animus of your own. That's when we'd be _real_ useful to the Brotherhood."

"It wouldn't be like that," Jackie says ferociously. "Desmond is my son – I would not let that happen. I wouldn't allow it."

"Jackie, you're Bleeding all over the place," Clay says flatly. "How much do you think your opinion will be worth?"

That's a blow which even Desmond doesn't approve, reaching out to grab Clay's hand and squeeze it warningly. Jackie draws harsh breaths, in and out, glaring at Clay until she manages to calm down a little.

"You think – you think we are so cruel and callous," she says. "You think we use people. I don't know where you get this idea from, but we are not _them_ ," she waves a hand at the world a large, obviously meaning Abstergo. "Abstergo is the enemy here, they are the ones who want to control people, bend them to their will. Not us. We are not the bad guys here."

Clay looks at her, wondering if maybe she's just as sheltered as Desmond had been, all these years – maybe she actually doesn't have any idea on how to Assassins work. "You know, good guys usually don't have to justify themselves by comparing themselves to the bad guys," he says flatly.

"Enough," Desmond says with a sigh and rubs a hand over his forehead. "Both of you shut up. It doesn’t matter."

"Desmond," Jackie says. "If you just let me –"

"It _doesn't matter_ , it won't change anything – you won’t change my mind," Desmond says wearily and looks at her. "And I don't want to fight you while I'm trying to say goodbye."

That leaves Jackie speechless, finally. Desmond blows out a breath and then looks up as Giraldo comes around, asking warily if they'd be looking to order yet. Judging by the silence in the main restaurant, everyone is aware of the little _domestic_ happening outside, though they are all too far away to overhear.

"Just get us all the day's special, please – and water to go with it," Desmond says in Italian and hands the menus to the man. "Thank you, Giraldo."

Jackie grimaces at the table and they all wait for Giraldo to head back inside before switching over to English again.

"I'll give you enough money to go wherever you want in Italy, but I'd prefer if you didn't stay in Monteriggioni when you call Dad. I'm sure you can manage to stay hidden long enough for them to come for you, though if you're not sure, I guess we can take you somewhere safe for you to make that call," Desmond says, and looks away, to the communal garden below the balcony. "Just… don't take this place from me. Don't bring the Assassins here."

"Desmond," Jackie whispers brokenly.

"But even if you absolutely have to, we'll be gone from here soon, so you can't catch us here," Desmond adds and then reaches for his pocket, taking out the memory stick. "I still prefer if you didn't tell anyone about this place, but… if you must, then know that I will _never_ forgive you. Here."

"What's this?" Jackie whispers, accepting the memory stick.

"All the data we have on the Animus project," Clay says. "Blueprints, session records, emails concerning the project, reports, budget estimates, everything. It's decrypted though – you'll get the key once you hit American soil again. Granted you keep your mouth shut about Monteriggioni… and us."

Desmond bows his head a little, glancing at him, while Jackie's eyes widen a little as she stares at the memory stick.

"So as long as you and the Assassins leave us alone, we'll send you more data," Clay adds. "We have a whole bunch, enough to blow the system wide open. Details on security, firewalls, passwords, the whole lot. So as long as you don't do anything _stupid_ … we're willing to share. Call it reverse child support."

"You're… paying me to stay away," Jackie whispers.

"You and the whole Brotherhood," Desmond says quietly and meets her already teary eyes head on. "Please. I know the stuff we have will change the whole battlefield for you, it will give the Brotherhood one hell of an advantage, so just… agree. Please, just take it and go."

Jackie's cheek flexes as she grits her teeth on whatever she wants to say, staring at the memory stick in her fingers. Proverbial keys to the kingdom of hell, Clay muses. Now it's just left to be seen which weighs more – the fight she's dedicated her life to, or the son she desperately wants to pack in wool.

"Why can't we work together?" she whispers. "All this – if you just came back, we could, we _could_ – why can't we just –"

"Because I don't want to," Desmond says.

Jackie breathes in and out and then closes her eyes. "You don't care about the cause at all, do you?"

Clay lets out a disbelieving bark of a laughter at that while Desmond just shakes his head. "I care," he says. "I just have a different cause."

"And what is that, exactly?" Jackie asks, swinging back to anger. "To lie in bed all day just _fucking_ around and not doing anything important –" she stops at the look Desmond gives her and her face crumbles into the expression of abject misery. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean –"

Clay folds his arms, not sure how much goodwill he will have left for this woman after all this. Not much.

Desmond seems pretty much done too, now, done and worn down. "Either you fuck up the life _I want…_ or you accept this," he motions at the memory stick, "and stay away. Those are the only two options here."

Jackie shakes her head, looking between Clay and Desmond and obviously trying to come up with something to say, something more to try and persuade her son with… but Desmond just sighs and closes his eyes to it.

"So which one is it, Mom? Take it or leave it?"


	17. Chapter 17

Jackie is an Assassin. She has been one her whole life. Her first memories are of hideouts, of handlers and technicians, of scenes seen through screens and read in letters, whispered conversations people thought she was too far away to hear and too young to understand. Her first memories were of murmured words of condolences, as another Assassin fell.

Her very first memory of her mother involves watching her putting away knives, hiding blades and needles in her clothes before carefully applying her _war paint_ , an exquisite layer of makeup which made her look soft and pliable and which forever made Jackie think that women with gentlest makeup were the most dangerous of the lot.

She'd been seriously involved in the work of assassins ever since she was eight. A raid to the hideout where she'd been at the time – four techies, her and another kid lived there, she can't remember his name anymore but he was solemn and serious, just like her, and they got along quietly. It had been supposed to be just another day, just another quiet day of them sitting in the back doing their homework, while the tech people worried over people far far away. One of them had promised to show Jackie and the boy how the hidden blades were made that day.

The attack happened without warning. Power went out, smoke grenade was thrown in, and there was a split of a second of panic, before everything went really quiet. Covered in smoke, she couldn't see what happened, when the still quietness of the techies turned into noise of action, shouts and orders and gunshots in the miasma. Then there'd been a man in combat gear in front of her and her friend – and her friend was dead. Bullet through the forehead, precise and perfect.

He was nine, he never had a chance.

Jackie did, though. The soldier – Abstergo's hired gun, she'd later learned, not really part of the organisation, just hired to do a hit – realised what he'd done only as the boy's body fell into the floor and the noise he made she haunts Jackie – she still can't tell if it was gleeful or _horrified_. All she knew is that she did the right thing. It had to be the right thing.

There'd been a table set aside for gear in need of maintenance. Radios, tactical vests, climbing gear – knives. One of them had been a hidden blade – the very same one of the handlers was intending to use as a display on how to take hidden blades apart and fix them again – and that was what Jackie went for. Her arm was still too small to put the blade on, but it didn't matter – all mattered was the blade, stuck out.

Without a sound, Jackie took it, went behind the man who'd killed her friend, and stuck the blade into him – right through the armpit, through ribs, into the heart, just like she'd been taught. Her first kill had been perfect, despite the fact that she'd been eight years old and only could reach that crucial spot because the man had been kneeling to check the corpse.

She'd been commended for it, as much as you can commend an eight year old semi-traumatised killer.

Of the techies two had been gunned down and the remaining two had grabbed what they could – including Jackie – and then they'd triggered the self destruct. Half and half, 50% survival rate. For an Assassin hideout that got found out… that was pretty good. Usually they all died.

It wasn't the last brush with death or the duties of an Assassin Jackie got before she was officially conducted into the Brotherhood, but it was the first. And it left an impact. Then, it didn't matter as much that she was only eight at the time, then it was just part of life, a horrible part maybe, but one she had to live. Later though…

Desmond spent his two first years of life in a hideout much like that one, with her, and occasionally taken care by a handler – or by Bill. And every time Jackie left, every time there was a mission, she wondered, _is this the time I will find the hideout ransacked, my boy dead?_ Would she come back, successful or not, to find that tragedy playing out again, and another dear one gone?

Their hideouts are always the more vulnerable part of them. They try not to grow attached – hideout is never a home, don't fool yourself into thinking it is. Average use-span of a hideout is four years, and it's growing shorter every year. They get found faster and faster and… and how long, until it would be the one where Desmond happened to be at the time?

Two years of fitful uncertainty, of remembering, of thinking back to all the hideouts lost and raided, all the people killed – the _kids_ they couldn't even bury because their bodies were lost. Her friend from back when she was eight was nowhere near the only one. Their worst casualties in the war against Templars, the dearest of all, their innocents – and their _innocence_ , too. Like Jackie's own.

Bill has similar stories from his youth – he too was raised in a hideout. Most every Assassin born to Assassin parents has a story or two to tell. The Farm was supposed to fix that – it wasn't a hideout, it didn't serve as an active base. It was just home for some people living peacefully off the grid, it was supposed to give their children time to be _children…_

Where had they gone wrong?

Jackie squeezes the memory stick in her hand while outside the Italian countryside fades into a blur of green gardens and hills and distant houses, flicker of passing street signs and cars. It's beautiful, probably, but she can barely see it, couldn't appreciate even if she did.

Where had she gone wrong? At what point had she crossed the line? What even was the line she had crossed? Was it on the Farm, was it before it – was it in Monteriggioni? At what point had she fucked up this bad?

Jackie draws a shuddering breath and looks down to the memory stick. It has probably invaluable information within it – everything they knew of the Animus program, that… that could be revolutionary to the Brotherhood. There are a lot of people in the Brotherhood who would have given an arm and a leg to know what the Animus Project was really about. The thing that had produced Daniel Cross, still more of an urban legend and science fiction than reality… they all wanted to know. This, and promise of more in future… it could change everything.

And Jackie doesn't give a shit.

 _"Either you fuck up the life I_ want _… or you accept this and stay away. Those are the only two options here."_

When had Desmond came to the conclusion that he had to buy his own freedom from her? When had that became a foregone conclusion, when… when had it came to this? How had it came to this, how…

Jackie wishes she could keep on blaming Abstergo for it, or place the blame on Clay maybe – as an older male, he should know better, surely. Something had happened to Desmond, something had changed her boy, he wasn't himself, he didn't know what he was doing, he was too young to -

"Shit," Jackie mutters and shoves the memory stick into the pocket of the jacket Desmond had got her at some point. Her hands are shaking – _she_ is shaking a little. She can keep on blaming the situation, and the situation probably is at fault. But it doesn't help now, just shifts the blame around for something she isn't sure she can change now. Whatever had led them here, here they are.

Desmond had still looked at her, and thought, _I have to bribe her to get her gone_. And he'd wanted her gone badly enough to do it, too. What the hell does that say about them, about him, about _her_? What does it say about all of this, that the son has to go through such lengths just to…

Leaning her cheek onto the backrest of the seat she's sitting on, Jackie stares blearily out, at the passing countryside. In her mind she can still see the way Desmond's face had shifted, how his shoulders had slumped, the breath he released, when she took the memory stick.

He'd been… so relieved.

Jackie blinks and for a moment there is an echo of ruins and castles outside, battlefields and war zones. Masyaf looms in the distance and quickly she closes her eyes and blows out a breath. Not now, Maria, she thinks quietly. She does not have the energy to deal with her right now.

Desmond had gone with Clay, who knows where. All their bags had been packed, their stuff ready to go – two backpacks, a laptop case and a suitcase. Of course, they didn't say where they'd be heading, but Jackie got the impression it would be out of Italy for now. Somewhere, where she probably couldn't track them.

She should've taken look at their IDs. They had to have IDs, right? They were living in Monteriggioni so openly, legally – the people there had known their names, called Desmond by his real name. She should've checked their IDs. Maybe then the Assassins could track them and…

No. It's better she doesn't know – and she wonders if somehow she'd known that from the beginning.

"E-excuse me?" a voice speaks in stilted English and Jackie opens her eyes. There is no sense of danger – all the other passengers on the bus had been toned in faded blues and greys – but there's still someone leaning over the pair of seats where Jackie is sitting. "Hello," an elderly woman says. "You were in Monteriggioni, yes? You are Desmond's mother."

Jackie swallows and then nods and offers the elderly woman an awkward smile. "Yes, I am," she says. "I'm sorry, I don't know you."

"Rosaria Alinari," the woman says and motions to the seat beside Jackie. "Do you mind if I sit?"

Jackie at first thinks to say no – but in the end she sighs and motions her to go ahead. She could use the distraction – and it is curious that this woman knows her son's name. "You met Desmond, then?" she asks and surreptitiously wipes at her eyes to make sure there are no fresh tears there.

" _Sì,_ he was in my library often," Rosaria says and smiles. "I run the public library in Monteriggioni – it doesn't have many visitors, but Desmond was there almost every day."

"Huh," Jackie says, frowning. Desmond has never been that much for reading – and considering how busy he was with Clay… "I hope he wasn't any bother," Jackie says. "Was he… reading anything in particular?"

"The old villa – the Auditore Villa. The questions he had," the woman says, shaking his head. "Endless questions. History, blueprints, current legal status, floor plans… renovation plans."

Jackie blinks at her as Rosaria looks at her searchingly, as if this is supposed to mean something to her. "That's interesting," Jackie settles on saying, not sure what to think. Maybe Desmond had been worried about the Sanctuary being found under the Villa?

They'd closed it up again, the last time they left. In a weird, possibly unhealthy way, Jackie thinks she's going to miss the place – miss the proof of Altaïr having been real. That statue had helped her settle, as much as it had hurt to look at it.

Rosaria says nothing for a moment watching her. "We have been wondering if he is an… architectural student, maybe?" Rosaria asks curiously.

Jackie looks away, pressing her lips together not sure what to say. She hadn't even asked Desmond what their cover story in Monteriggioni was, really, hadn't asked how to help maintain it. She'd really been… "I'm sorry," Jackie says. "Don't really…  I don't really feel like talking."

Rosaria purses her lips together, looking thoughtful. "I understand," she says then and leans forward to stand up again. "My niece is gay also – or lesbian, I suppose. It was difficult for her parents. Desmond is a nice boy, though. I hope you can learn to understand him."

Jackie blinks at that and then looks up. Is that what the people of Monteriggioni thought? "I don't care that he's gay," she murmurs, frowning and looking away. Well… she cares a little.

She cares that Desmond found himself with a man five years older than him. She hadn't gotten a proper read on Clay, he swung from side to side, but what she saw was always a little alarming. Clay is a dangerous man, she still feels that, and Desmond had even said he knew it… but does he really? There is an edge to Clay, sharp and serrated that doesn't care about the damage it does. Edge, which she isn't sure Desmond ever felt the brunt of.

She would've liked Desmond to settle for a boy his age, if he had to settle, not for someone like Clay. But just being gay, that's… whatever.

"You didn't mind him in Monteriggioni?" Jackie asks. "Being gay and all that?"

"Oh, there were mutters, older folk being stupid mostly, but Desmond is likable and Clay seems like a smart young man," Rosaria says and leans back again. "We don't get many visitors, in Monteriggioni. Especially ones who've stayed as long as they have. I think it has been nice to see someone appreciating our home like Desmond does."

Jackie frowns a little at that. "Ones who have stayed as long as they have?" she asks slowly. "How… how long have Desmond and Clay been in Monteriggioni?"

Rosaria thinks about it. "It's been over a month now – it was March when they arrived and settled at Rosa's place."

Jackie stares at her. "They arrived in March?" she asks faintly.

"Sì. March twenty-seven I think. Maybe twenty-eight."

Jackie says nothing as she does mental math. Desmond ran away on thirteenth – on his own birthday. It… had been only _two weeks_ between Desmond running away and their arrival in Italy? "What?" Jackie asks and turns away, confused. Two weeks – just two weeks. And judging by the lack of confusion on the part of the commune's inhabitants, none of Desmond's and Clay's behaviour was strange to them, so they'd been acting as they had since arriving.

How the hell…

"Is there something the matter?" Rosaria asks.

"I – uh," Jackie says and rubs at her forehead. "I didn't know they were here so long, that's all."

Rosaria looks at her perceptively and nods. "They have been well," she says. "They arrived in good health and good humour and they've been doing well since. It is sad to see them go."

Jackie swallows. Good health and good humour. In mere two weeks – maybe even less than that – something had happened that had altered Desmond's personality _completely_. What had Abstergo done to him? Was it really something like what they'd done to Daniel Cross, something worse? But… he seems so stable – and he knew her, and he didn't want to go with her, so… he wasn't a planted time bomb to be triggered at the right moment. He was something else.

Subject Seventeen, Jackie thinks and looks away. She was Subject Nine – while Desmond and Clay were numbers Sixteen and Seventeen. She couldn't forget that, now could she – they used their numbers as fucking pet names, with all the ironic, twisted fondness only people with shared horrors can manage. She would know – for a while, she'd been known as _one of the 50/50_ , same as the two handlers. A shared name for shared horror, bringing people together.

There had been mutterings of other Subjects of the Animus Program and avoiding the mistakes made with them. The Subject preceding Jackie was, logically, named Subject Eight – and he had had a stroke. With her they'd been trying to figure out how to avoid another one. Subject Eight, Subject Nine…

Why would subjects Sixteen and Seventeen _precede_ her?

Jackie runs a hand shakily over her forehead and tries to make sense of it. Beside her, Rosaria pats her shoulder awkwardly.

"They are good boys," she says. "I'm sure they will be fine."

* * *

 

Jackie arrives in Rome later that evening – Rosaria has by that point already disembarked the bus, going to see a family in some little village along the way, name of which Jackie has already forgotten. It's getting dark and the streets around the bus station are mostly empty, few cars passing through and some pedestrians, but not many. Still, Jackie tugs on the hood of her jacket and shoulders the bag of few belongings she has, and quickly heads away.

She needs to find a phone. She needs to call in. There are some active hideouts in Italy, hopefully she could go into one of them – though if not, then… then she'd need to find a place to hide, somewhere out of view, until an extraction team could come pick her up.

She walks on, away from the open area of the bus station and down the street flanked by what looks like apartment buildings. Under the glow of the Eagle Vision she can't immediately spot any points of interest as she looks for cameras, so it looks a little safer – but she moves through the area fast, looking for a payphone. Residential area isn't very likely to have one – but there would be supermarket somewhere nearby, right?

As Jackie walks on, she passes by a kiosk, with newspaper advertisements in the front. She doesn't stop to read them, but she does slow down a little to read the headlines.

It's been four days now since the Abstergo Tower collapse. It's not even news anymore – it had been one for hot second, but then the word of _the_ planned demolition going wrong had gotten out, and the news had been quickly dropped. Already, there are other things in the headlines – right now, bombing in Morocco, this one a confirmed terrorist attack.

Jackie presses her lips together and moves on, wondering. It always happens with Abstergo – something noteworthy occurs, like a suspicious explosion… and then, soon after, something worse happens somewhere else, and the first bit of news is quickly dropped.

There – finally. A row of three payphones stuck to the side of a supermarket wall. Jackie quickly glances around to make sure the payphone isn't under camera view, and then quickly makes over to it. With the money Desmond had given her, Jackie dials.

* * *

 

It's only four hours, before the extraction team arrives. Jackie spends most of that time lying around on the rooftop of an apartment building, in the shadow of its AC unit – well out of view of anyone who might be watching. She spots the van coming for her literally mile away – under the black and grey of the Eagle Vision at night, it glows like the sun, blindingly obvious in the shadows.

Her Eagle Vision, her Gift, is stronger now. Before the Animus and the awkward fragments of Altaïr and Darim, she'd been able to see objects only at about hundred, two hundred feet distance. After that, importance became blurry and she couldn't see the shades anymore. Something about the Animus had sharpened the sense, though. Something about Altaïr… had to be. Maria hadn't had the gift after all.

Jackie pushes the thought aside – and the echoes of Masyaf – as she blinks her eyes back to normal sight, and then makes her way to the ladder. The van comes to the side of the building just as she drops down the last few feet and makes her way over to it.

An Assassin jumps out from the back, battle ready and wary. "Evening, ma'am," he says in somewhat accented English, though it's hard to say where the accent is from. "Nice night out, isn't it?"

"I'm hoping for a little rain, actually," Jackie answers and the Assassin relaxes a little – but not all the way.

"I'm going to have to cuff you, ma'am," he says. "And blindfold you. Security reasons."

She'd invoked the dreaded word _Animus_ in her message, so… "Understandable, go right ahead," she sighs. "Here or inside?"

"Inside."

The van is a clean one – no equipment inside, just seats and small, normal looking medical kit and nothing else. Border crossing van, then, Jackie muses while sitting down and holding her hands up. "Has my husband been informed?" she asks quietly, as he snaps proper assassin-proof cuffs on her – inflexible bar in between and locks too complicated for easy lock picking.

"Yes, ma'am – you'll have a video conference with him once we reach the hideout."

Jackie breathes in and out, and forces herself to stay calm as the blindfold is put on. The van starts moving immediately after, and she doesn't even bother to keep track of the twists and turns they take – they will be driving in random circles for a moment to confuse her sense of direction and even after that they will take the roundabout route to the hideout. Standard procedure nowadays, when there is _any_ suspicion of another purge incident.

It's only about an hour of driving, though, so there's a good chance the hideout is in Rome. During that time she is meticulously checked over for both weapons and bugs, every fold of her clothing scanned and cleared. All they find is the memory stick which, after a check, is left in her pocked. 

She can feel the moment they arrive – there is a sense to Assassin hideouts that people with the Eagle Vision are attuned to – a sense of _safety_ that falls over you like a blanket when the door closes after you. The door is shut, the world is outside – it's okay now.

Only it isn't.

She's helped out of the van. The handcuffs are left on, but the blindfold is taken off, revealing to her a fairly standard looking hideout. A warehouse, relatively large one with all the necessary crates and pallets to sell it to anyone who might come in – it even looks like it actively works as one, judging by the dates on some of the pallets. The windows are all stained with what looks like twenty, thirty years of dust and weathering – it looks believably natural, though it's probably been carefully painted on over several weeks.

"This way, Ma'am," the Assassin says as the driver hops out of the van, and together they lead Jackie up a winding metal staircase, up to the second floor of the warehouse, which reveals the true age of the building – and that it's very recently been acquired by the Brotherhood. There are some shelves, tables, chairs, couple of computers and appliances, but it doesn't look like they're quite finished moving in – everything is still a bit haphazardly placed.

That explains why they dared to bring her at all – the place is so new, that if they lose it because of her, it won't be a big loss.

"Do you have the call set up?" the Assassin who brought her in asks a young techie working by one of the computers.

"Yep, right here, ma'am," the black haired girl says, motioning to a chair set up in front of a camera, turning a screen to face her. The screen is all black now, and the camera isn't on yet, but…

Jackie takes a breath and sits down, facing the camera, her cuffed hands in her lap. She hold still as they hook her to a heart monitor, with another camera turned in on her eye, to watch for pupillary response. They still don't have a good way to identify when someone's mind has been tampered with, after all – physical reactions to stressors is the best they can do.

Idly Jackie wonders if Desmond and Clay know a better way.

"Are you ready ma'am?" the black haired girl asks.

Jackie nods, and they make the call. It takes a while of silence, then crackle of static sounds through some speakers and Jackie turns her eyes to the screen aimed her way – it's grainy and choppy for a moment, but there he is.

"Bill," Jackie sighs and lets her shoulders slump. Thank god – whatever had happened, whatever had gone down… at least he's alright. There'd been no way to know before. Desmond and Clay might've known – they had sort of assumed that she would go back to her husband which has implicated that they knew he was alright, but…

He looks alright. Tired, there are bags under his eyes and his beard looks a little unkempt, but he doesn't look injured or ill, though it's hard to say on the grainy video feed.

 _"Jackie,"_ Bill's voice answers, a little stilted in the speakers, image lagging behind the audio – coming from long way away then, probably from the US. _"Thank god. Report."_

Jackie breathes in and out and nods. "Approximately on the fifteenth of March, 2003, I was captured by Abstergo agents in Rapid City," she says. "I was taken off the street – grabbed from behind and dragged into a van. I was knocked out immediately and when I woke up I was in their holding cells, about to be questioned…"

It's a familiar enough tale. It's not the first time an Assassin has been captured by Abstergo – nor the first time they've escaped somehow. It usually goes the same way – Abstergo gets them, stuns them, gets them under lock and key and then squeezes them until they get all they can use out of them… and unless they manage to escape, they are killed.

Jackie would've been too – except they'd taken her blood, and found something usable in her genes.

"It was only day after the blood was drawn that Warren Vidic came, and took charge of me," Jackie continues. "I was knocked out for the transport and I only learned four days ago where they took me – here, as it happens. To the Abstergo Facility which was bombed recently."

The team around her exchange looks but they say nothing, waiting on Bill.

 _"The Animus facility,"_ Bill says slowly, his pale eyes keen and alert.

They'd figured that out? Thank god, she won't have to explain it then, Jackie thinks and nods. "I suspect the Rome facility was their main research facility when it came to the Animus project, but I don't know for sure. I was… made a subject in their research. Subject Nine," Jackie says and closes her eyes. "Vidic put me into the Animus almost immediately."

Silence follows those words, and when Jackie looks up expectantly, Bill is leaning closer to the camera. _"Jackie,"_ he says, wary.

"It's not what we think, Bill," she says and shakes her head. "It's not just a machine to transplant false memories or manipulate the existing ones, to make sleeper agents. It _reads_ memory. Genetic memory."

 _"That's… that's pseudoscience,"_ Bill says slowly. _"There's no such thing as genetic memory."_

"That's what I said," Jackie says with a quiet laugh and leans back in her chair with a sigh. "You know how my mother boasted that she was related to _the_ Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad? Turns out, maybe she wasn't just boasting. They tried to… I don't know, look into the past, at him, through my DNA? To see something he saw, once – something a PoE showed him."

Bill frowns. _"Like what?"_ he asks tensely.

"A map of where all the rest them are," Jackie says and shakes her head. "Or at least that's what they told me."

_"Vidic told you what they were after?"_

"No. The people who rescued me. Who bombed the facility," Jackie says and looks at the camera. Time to make a decision, she thinks and then makes a face.

 _"We pick our battles, right?"_ were Desmond's parting words to her. _"So many to choose from."_

"A third party," she says and looks up. "They went after the facility in concentrated bit for revenge, from what I could gather, and found me there pretty much by accident."

Bill says nothing for a moment, leaning away again. _"Tell me everything,"_ he then orders _. "Everything, Jackie. From start to end."_

Jackie does – explaining what she'd learned about it after the fact. A group of highly talented individuals had somehow discovered what she assumes is an enormous cache of Abstergo's data, and used it to their advantage. "They have _incredible_ ability to hack Abstergo's servers and systems," she says. "So much so that they can just walk in and the cameras never record them. That's how they stole the explosives from a Templar bunker, and that's how they managed to plant them without being noticed."

 _"And they did this just to destroy the facility?"_ Bill asks, frowning.

"And to assassinate Warren Vidic, which they did," Jackie says. "There were nine Abstergo casualties to the attack which they haven't reported – eight guards and Vidic. Their intention was to if not put an end to the Animus Project, then at least hinder it severely."

 _"Why?"_ Bill demands to know. _"What do they gain from it?"_

"I think it was more about stopping Abstergo from gaining from it," Jackie admits. "Abstergo is looking for more Pieces of Eden, lost to history – if they can recover the genetic memories carried by descendants of those who hid them, or who saw them… " she shakes her head. "At least that's what I assume. I might be wrong."

She probably is. Desmond and Clay had in the end told her very little about what their actual goals and motives are.

 _"Tell me more about these people,"_ Bill demands. _"Did you learn names, motives – who do they work for?"_

Jackie doesn't hesitate – she can't. If she does, it might read as a lie. "There was just two of them – two young men. They called each other Sixteen and Seventeen," she says. "I never saw them communicating with anyone, though. I don't think they did."

_"Describe them to me."_

"They both appeared Caucasian, one blond, one dark-haired. Young, in their early twenties, maybe even under it," Jackie says and goes onto describing both Seventeen and Sixteen with Assassin's accuracy – and Assassin's skill of misdirection. The trick, she knows, isn't in the details – it is in the tone. If she describes Seventeen like she would a stranger, then a stranger he is.

Bill's expression is tense as he nods along the descriptions – they say little to him, removed as they are from their sources _. "Right,"_ he says. _"Can you tell me about the place they took you? I assume you were with them these last four days."_

"Yes, but I couldn't say. It was an unknown place to me," Jackie says with perfect honesty. "I was… confused from the Animus. It took me days to feel stable again. I didn't really learn much during my stay with them, mostly I was just…" she hangs her head a little and makes a face. "The Animus has side effects – I was dealing with those."

Bill doesn't answer immediately, watching her. _"Is there anything else you can tell me?"_ he asks quietly and his voice breaks a little, though whether it's emotion or static, she isn't sure. _"Did you see Desmond? Was he there?"_

Jackie doesn't answer, reaching instead for her pocket and taking out the memory stick. "They gave me this," she says a little shakily. "A parting gift. Everything they know about the Animus project. They said it was encrypted, though – that I can have the password once I'm on American soil again," she says and hands the memory stick to the techie girl, who accepts it with wide eyes. Jackie sighs and turns to the camera again. "I'm sorry, Bill," she says and feels herself almost breaking, choking into her own words. "I didn't see Desmond at the facility. I didn't see him there. I didn't find him."

If she told him, Bill would go looking for him. Bill had wanted Desmond, Bill had chosen him – to Bill, Desmond meant the world. More than that, Desmond is now altered, somehow, he is impossibly knowledgeable and strange and _knows things_. That might be even more pressing than anything else, this information and knowledge Desmond now has. If Bill found out, he would search for Desmond, would uncover Monteriggioni, the Auditore Villa, everything…

And Jackie would lose whatever hope she had of ever making peace with her son.

She's picking her battle.

"I didn't find him," Jackie whispers. Desmond had found her… and then he'd found her wanting.

 _"Jackie,"_ Bill says quickly, as Jackie bows her head and fights the tears trying to strangle her. _"Jackie, is alright, I'm – happy to see you're safe, at least. If Desmond wasn't there, then he's still out there – we might still find him – "_

Jackie doesn't answer – she just cries.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And some more very awkward sex in this chapter...

They settle in at a new hotel, this one in Bern, Switzerland. They settle on the cheapest one they can find – at this point the pickpocket money is starting to run out. Paying Nora for the weeks they'd stayed, giving his mother money for travel and then traveling themselves… for all that Desmond had stolen literally thousands from various people, it's not exactly an infinite or reliable sort of income.

They'd need tickets back to the US – that would cost a lot. Opening a bank account would also take some funds. In the US they would have to settle down somewhere for a while too, preferably in an actual _apartment_ – a bit more legit than a hotel… Money, money, money.

"You know of all the things you'd think would be an issue," Desmond mutters. "Maybe we should try doing all of this underground, squatting hideouts and stealing what we need. It'd be cheaper, if nothing else."

"But not safer," Clay answers while lounging about on the bed, tinkering with the laptop. "I guess this would be a bad time to tell you I might need a new computer."

Desmond turns to him. "Now, or can you wait until we make it to the US and get on with the lottery?"

"Hmm," Clay makes a face. "I kind of want to set up a server to automatically snoop around Hephaestus," Clay admits. "And Abstergo, and I don't like connecting those systems straight to the Truth. I got it well protected by just the fact that it uses a programming language that doesn't exist yet, but still – it's a risk."

"Right, I'll see what I can do," Desmond sighs and sets their bags down by the door.

Next up, opening a bank account. In this time Swiss bank accounts are still the more or less most secure in the world, their clients still enjoying more secrecy than they will be in future – by the time banking started going more and more online it won't be much of an advantage to have. In the age of the internet, all rich folk lost their privacy eventually. But starting out a bit quieter wouldn't hurt.

And it was what people in movies did and maybe Desmond wants to be a bit of a cliché once in a while.

Then he realises what Clay said. "You're in Hephaestus?" he asks and turns to the bed.

"Obviously," Clay says and turns to lie on his belly, setting the laptop onto the bed so that Desmond can see. "I had to make sure that Jackie wasn't spilling the secrets too early – there was a real chance of that. Now I'm waiting for the confirmation of her arrival in the US so that I can deliver the decryption key."

"Huh," Desmond says and lies down on the bed beside him. "I didn't know you were doing that."

"It wasn't that important – currently the Assassins don't know much we don't," Clay admits and folds his arms, resting his chin on them. "But it's a way to keep track of things. There'll be a fire lit under their asses once they decrypt that packet, though, it'll be a sight to see."

Desmond hums in agreement, reaching to tap an arrow key to shuffle through the visible emails – somehow, Clay has both his father's and his mother's emails on display. "You're going to email the decryption key, then?"

"Mm-hmm," Clay answers. "They will try to crack the encryption on their own first though. They'll fail, but they'll try."

"You are that good, huh?" Desmond asks, smiling a little.

"In this time, I might actually be the best," Clay says without a hint of modesty and peers up at him. Desmond looks back, leaning his cheek to his palm, and predictably Clay shuffles a little closer, pressing against him. "No parental supervision now," he comments, snuffling at Desmond's neck. "Does that mean we can fuck?"

"You're so romantic, you just take my breath away," Desmond snorts and leans his chin onto the top of Clay's head, grinding down. "I'm practically swooning."

Clay snorts back and then tilts his head to press a kiss on his Adam's Apple.

Desmond is really not in the mood though, and when Clay goes to wrap an arm around his waist, he turns away, to lie on his back. Clay watches him and then, with a sigh rests his cheek on Desmond's shoulder, leaving it at that.

For a moment they're silent. The hotel room around them is… cold compared to the one in Monteriggioni. All white walls and grey curtains, very modern and sleek and utterly lacking the weird cosiness of the ancient stone and old furniture of Monteriggioni's single hotel. Desmond knew he would miss it, but not this much, this soon.

He kind of just wants to go back home already. They can't – not if they want to actually do anything with their second lives. They have work to do, and to do that work they need money and resources. And, of course, to get the Auditore Villa… they need millions. And even if they had all that already, their Visas aren't going to last forever.

And of course… there was his mother.

"Any word yet on what Mom said to the Assassins?" Desmond asks quietly.

"No," Clay says. "Not yet. I'll let you know when I know."

Desmond nods and runs his fingers through his hair, scratching idly at his scalp. He's tried not to think about it too hard, her tear-stained face, her red eyes, as she turned to the bus and then was gone. He'd probably left her little better when he'd ran away from the Farm and he hadn't felt sorry then – now though he knows more, both about her, about himself, about what's coming, about what they're fighting. Now it's a bit more personal.

"Why does it feel like I abandoned her to the wolves?" Desmond mumbles and closes his eyes.

"Because you think yourself as the good guy and everyone else as not-so-good-guys," Clay answers calmly. "And that includes the Assassins. And you're wrong, there. They're her people. You didn't abandon her – you just sent her home."

Desmond lets out a slow breath, weirdly frustrated by that. On one hand, yeah, that's more or less correct. But on the other hand… "None of them knows what's coming," he murmurs.

Clay hums. "If they did, what could they do about it, really?" he asks. "Their resources are limited and they're locked up in their war against Abstergo, whatever they try to do will always be hindered by that. They could gather pieces of Eden, maybe, the power sources for the Grand Temple at most, but then what? Wait for nine years to sacrifice you to Juno again? Fuck that."

Desmond lets out a quiet, mirthless laugh and looks down at him. "Cynic," he accuses fondly and wraps an arm around Clay's shoulders, pressing his palm into his mid-back.

"Tch," Clay answers and wiggles in closer. "We can tell them if you're so worried. Dunno if they'll actually believe us, but I can make a data packet of it. It'll include stuff from future, though – the flare wasn't really detectable until about a month before it happened."

"Hmm," Desmond answers and looks away. "Maybe later, then."

Clay doesn't answer, sighing and nuzzling into his shoulder, while Desmond strokes his back and stares up at the ceiling. It's still making him feel weirdly guilty – not guilty but guilty anyway. Like he lied to her – which he probably had, really. Lied to her, abandoned to her, didn't give her the warning she probably needed…

"She died, you know," Clay says then, his voice quiet, half-muffled in Desmond's jumper. "Subject Nine expired on 15th of June, 2003. Stroke. I only found out when I was going through the data – thought you should know."

Desmond says nothing for a long, long moment, breathing slowly in and out. "Well," he murmurs then, his voice shaking a little. "That's a future changed, huh?"

"I don't know if the Assassins ever knew for sure – I don't think they have operative that deep in Abstergo yet. There was a reason why Lucy had to go through so many years of isolation to get in," Clay says. "And Abstergo doesn't keep personal data on their Subjects or their identities, so she wouldn't have known either. But they probably suspected it."

Desmond swallows. Lucy had said _parents_ though, when there'd been an attack on what Desmond had then assumed was the new Farm – _enclaves_ and _desert communes_ … She said parents, like plural still applied, like his mother was alive.

"Maybe it wasn't her last time," Desmond says, but without much hope.

"It was," Clay says. "I found a picture too. It was her."

Shit.

Desmond closes and sighs. Whether or not Lucy had known, whether or not his father had known – they'd decided he was better off not knowing. It would never happen now, if he had anything to say about it, but still… they'd all lied to him, one way or the other. Had Rebecca and Shaun known too?

More importantly though… would he have really cared if he had known? He hadn't really known her, his memories faded and jilted like plants under all the shit he'd buried them under. She'd been a faded recollection at best, not a fully realised person. How much of an impact would it really have made to know she was dead? Not much, probably. But to know she died in similar circumstances as him…

"You saved her life," Clay says against his shoulder. "That's something."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees. "That's something."

 

* * *

 

The next day, Desmond works out a bank account. It takes him the whole damn day.

Not only does he have to accumulate the actual funds to start which – which takes all of the pickpocketing – he then has to figure out how to not make the whole thing look suspicious as _shit_ once he has the required money. Taking in a fistful of crumbled up bills is not really the way to get things started and worse is the fact that he has no previous bank records, nor a convenient trustworthy family member to give recommendations, nor really… any references to give.

In the end, it's only the Eagle Vision and a lot of lying to get the whole thing done – and pretty much ironing a whole wad of euros and francs stolen throughout the day to make them look a little less like illicitly acquired drug money or something. Desmond plays the perfect American idiot to the banker who stares at him with somewhat incredulous fascination, like he's a particularly silly looking specimen in a zoo. There are even bars in between.

"Like, it's in all the moves you know, you get a Swiss bank account and then you're like all set, you know?" Desmond says, watching the banker closely with Eagle Vision to figure out what the woman is thinking. It's really freaky – really a bit like telepathy like Clay once said – how he can see her thoughts changing their shades. "And so I like, saved? Like all my life I saved just a buncha money just so that I could like open a Swiss bank account – the first one I'd ever open, you know? I mean it's like, if that's where you start, then you know your stuff, you know?"

"Quite, Mr. Lane," she says in accented English, seeming half bewildered and half enthralled, her eyes wide and a little glassy. Somehow, Desmond is dead certain she's thinking of a movie right now, of American stereotypes – and that she's going to have great fun telling her banker friends all about this. "I'll just have to clear few things and I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement. I'm going to need an ID, your passport preferably."

Thank fucking _god_ Clay was smart enough to get it all legal. Desmond hands everything over and then lounges about as she checks things, scanning the whole lot before smiling and getting up. "I just have to make a call and then I will be right back, okay? It won't take long."

"Right on," Desmond says and tugs on a set of headphones as she takes all his ID with her. "I'll just hang here."

Clay is cackling in his ear the moment he gets the headphones on. _"Jesus Christ, Desmond,"_ he says. _"Bring the surfer dude up a notch, will you?"_

"Right on," Desmond says again as if to himself, and then leans back in his chair. "I guess I'll just wait, yeah."

 _"I'm checking what they're doing – no alarm bells yet,"_ Clay says, giggling. _"Yeah, she's running the stuff through checks, hmm… yeah, she's making a call, to check you're actually legally legal person existing legally in the country. This might take a while."_

"Guess I'll put on some tunes," Desmond mutters and reaches for his pocket as if to adjust an mp3 player. The wait takes a while, with Clay checking the steps the banker is making – but in the end, everything comes through.

 _"Am I good or am I good?"_ Clay asks gleefully.

Clay is very, very good, Desmond thinks with a slight smile of pride and closes his eyes, rocking his head slightly as if in tune of a beat.

"Well then, Mr. Lane, it seems everything is in order," bank teller says, coming back and sitting back down on her seat behind the bars and the bulletproof glass. She smiles and hands all his IDs back. "Let's talk about accounts then."

In the end, Desmond gets a fairly basic account – subject to all sort of changes in the future. The whole point isn't really to start the bank account of his dreams – it is to start _any_ bank account with _any_ sort of legality. Setting roots of legitimacy for the bank accounts of the future, more or less.

Though having an international debit card wouldn't hurt. Credit card, though… that would have to wait until they had an actual credit score to work with. And address to receive bills in. "Thankfully for now the address of their hotel would do – until they arrived at the next hotel anyway.

 _"Next up, US, right?"_ Clay asks, as Desmond heads away from the bank, his wallet several dozen bills lighter and a plastic card heavier.

"Hmm," Desmond answers. "How many days do we have left in our visas?"

_"Thirty-seven."_

Desmond blinks at that and then tilts his head up to look at the sky. That would mean they'd been in Italy over fifty days. It didn't feel anywhere near as long, huh. Where did the time go? "And when is the first weekend?" he asks, meaning the first weekend where they had accurate lottery numbers to work with.

_"About month from now – June twentieth."_

Desmond nods. "No hurry then," he says and tilts his head a bit, laying his hand on top of his ear to block out the ambient noise of the city out. "Hey, want to go out on a date?"

Clay doesn't answer immediately and Desmond can't hear anything in the headset for a long while, almost a full block's length. When he does finally hear anything, Clay sounds almost tentative. _"… like a_ date _date?"_

Desmond grins. "Flowers, dinner, candles, walks in a park somewhere in here. I'm sure there are nice parks in Bern," he agrees. "Or walking around in old part of town or something – there's like a canal here, right? Let's go walk around it and just be tourists for a bit. And after… well, no parental supervision here, right?"

Clay lets out a choked sound and Desmond grins a little wider. _"Yeah, yeah, okay,_ Jesus. _Let's do it,"_ Clay says.

 

* * *

 

They end up eating at in a restaurant overlooking the Aare river, a _Weincafe_ which turns out serves a lot of alcohol. It also serves food though, some of which is a bit of a culture shock for both of them, after the pizza, pasta and bread of Italy.

Though Clay knows a bit of German, most of it comes from the times of wars and such and funnily enough he doesn't know how to read a menu. So, he ends up ordering something called _Aperoplättli mit Trockenfleisch und Käse_ which turns out to be mostly jerky and cheese, while Desmond orders vaguely familiar sounding _Hauswurst auf Wursthobel_ which turns out to be to be dry smoked sausage.

Well, at least the alcohol is good – and though Desmond half expected to only get like beer or cider or something, it turns out the drinking age for half alcohol in Switzerland is actually 18. Which he legally supposedly is. He orders a beer anyway.

"I've never felt so weirdly American as I do right now," Clay says while holding a bit of jerky. "I don't even remember the last time I've eaten jerky. Probably wasn't this good though."

"Lemme try that," Desmond says and picks a bit off Clay's plate – which Clay then retaliates by getting a bit of his sausage. It's such a mundane couple thing to do that Desmond doesn't know whether to mock him – and himself – or just grin. He ends up doing a bit of both, mockingly grinning at Clay who makes a face and makes a show of munching Desmond's food. "Jackass."

Neither of them knows what to do on a date together though. It's not like there's much there to discover about each other – they already know most everything there is to know, so all the first date small talk is kind of pointless. Not that it is their first date – though maybe it is. In Monteriggioni, they'd gone out plenty of times, anyone could probably comfortably call them dates, but… they hadn't been _specifically_ dates for sake of being dates.

Mostly, they'd just been escapes.

Here, for the first time, they're on a date just to be on a date. That's pretty damn special, for people like them.

Even though it's weirdly awkward at first.

"If you could be an animal, what would it be?" Desmond asks.

"What the hell kind of question is that?" Clay asks suspiciously.

"The stupid date kind," Desmond shrugs. "Can't exactly ask you what you want to be when you _grow up_ can I? So, animal. Or, hell, tell me your favourite colour. Ooh, no wait, I got a better one," he says and then leans in. "Favourite time period."

Clay lets out a snort and flicks a bit of jerky at him. "This one," he says. "This one is the best one. Or like, ten years from now. Exactly ten years from now, granted that the Mayan apocalypse doesn't wipe us off the face of the earth."

Desmond blinks. "Really," he says, fascinated. "Not the Renaissance?"

Clay gives him a look. "Hell no – do you even know the kinds of medicine they had back then? Leeches, leeches everywhere. Besides," he continues, quieter now. "You got all the fun happy sexy bits of the times – I just got a psychosis from it. Old Ezio wasn't an easy suit of memories to wear for me. It was awkward and forced and left me half insane. No fun times were had."

That… he hadn't thought of that. "Oh," Desmond says and frown. "I thought…"

"It wasn't all bad," Clay mutters and reaches for his wine glass, whirling it and the liquid within it idly in his hands. "There were good bits – like building up the fortress, that was a definite high point. But it wasn't like how it was for you – I was never at home in his skin."

Desmond looks down, frowning. "I didn't realise. Sorry," he says and looks away, a little awkward.

"A turtle," Clay then says.

"What?

"A turtle, if I could be an animal, I'd want to be a turtle. A sea turtle."

Desmond stares at him for a moment and then shakes his head. "A – turtle?" he says. "Did not expect that. Why a turtle?"

"They live for three hundred years," Clay says with a shrug. "And all they do is chill in the ocean, ride currents, eat some fish and occasionally go lounge on a beach somewhere to have eggs. Seems like a solid deal to me." He arches his eyebrows and then points the wine glass at Desmond. "Lemme guess, an eagle, right?"

Desmond harrumphs. "No," he mutters. "Am I really that cliché?

Clay grins and brings the wine glass to his lips. "What is it then?"

"… a hawk. I think I'd make a good hawk."

Clay almost snorts the wine in and ends up hacking and coughing amidst his giggling, and with a grin, Desmond reaches for his beer and drinks to his victory.

After the dinner, which wasn't all that bad really if very different from what they got used to in Italy, they end up walking along the Aare. There is a gorgeous walkway that runs along the side of the winding river, with all these old buildings overlooking it. With the night falling, the city lights reflect on the mirror smooth water's surface and it's really like a scene from the photograph.

"Gotta hand it to you. This is romantic as hell," Clay comments, as they lean onto a brick baluster, overlooking the river and the reflections of old houses and lights on the river. "This is like ridiculously romantic, damn."

Desmond grins and nudges at his side with his elbow. "Not a bad idea, huh?" He says and then leans a little to Clay. Not knowing how these things are seen in Switzerland he doesn't feel like going full-on PDA here, he doesn't want the night to end with them in trouble with the locals, but still… it's really nice.

"I'm not really flowers and chocolates and walks along riverside kind of guy," Clay says quietly, looking at the river before turning to him. "You're going to be so disappointed with me in the long run."

Desmond looks at him and then scoffs. "Not gonna happen," he says and leans in to bump his forehead against Clay's. "I don't expect shit from you, Clay. It's enough that you're here."

"Hmm," Clay answers, brushing his nose against Desmond's. "I'm not always all here though."

"You're getting better. And wherever your mind goes, so as long as it comes back to me, that's fine," Desmond says and leans back a little. "Though, we really do need to get some chocolate. It's Switzerland for fuck's sake, that's like their main thing. Coming here and not getting chocolate, that's like… probably a national crime or something."

"You are such a tourist," Clay snorts and pushes away from the baluster. "Right. Let's go find a chocolate shop."

The few they find are all closed at that hour, but just walking around in nighttime Bern is interesting in its own right. They end up crossing the river, walking down old streets the names of which Desmond couldn't ever hope to pronounce, looking at the shop fronts of various fancy looking stores, including several confectionery stores with ridiculously good looking chocolates on display.

"It's like jewellery store but it's all candy," Clay says, half incredulous.

"We really gotta visit this place in daytime," Desmond says and shakes his head. "I really want chocolate so bad right now, Christ."

"Well, at least now I know what to get you whenever you're feeling under-appreciated," Clay mutters. "Come on, let's go before you drool all over the good chocolatier's windows. I'm sure we can get chocolate from here somewhere."

They end up buying chocolate from a supermarket which is open until midnight and where, it so happens… they also sell condoms and even small, clandestine bottles of lube. And, much to Desmond's relief, there are also packets of vinyl gloves on sale – likely for the use of cleaning and cooking, but anyway…

"Um," Clay says when he sees the plastic packet of five pairs of gloves Desmond adds into the packet. "Okay, now I'm worried. Do I want to know what the gloves are for?"

"Why do you think?" Desmond asks and nudges at him. "Out of the way – time to spend the last bit of money I have left at hand..."

"Okay, yeah, mark me down as turned on and terrified, yeah," Clay mutters and steps aside. " _Jesus._ "

Desmond grins, and then smiles brightly at the cashier who gives them somewhat worried looks, and pays for the lot with his band new debit card. The cashier clears her throat and then rings the purchases in with the air of _really not my business,_ and Desmond only grins wider.

It's a very long and very tense trip back to the hotel, after that.

 

* * *

 

Desmond takes his time in the bathroom, ignoring Clay's somewhat nervous whining. Clay is a more spontaneous type of guy, that's pretty obvious, but Desmond himself likes the build up more – likes to take his time. And besides, it's the first time – in a lot of ways. And unlike during his _last_ first time, this time he's going to be fucking prepared.

"You know, if you're this freaking nervous, maybe I should be the bottom," Clay almost bemoans through the bathroom door while Desmond enjoys a nice and _thorough_ wash. "I'm sure I wouldn't take a _whole fucking hour at it_!"

"You know what's not sexy, Clay?" Desmond answers while leaning back against the bathtub edge. "Bleeding from the ass. That's not sexy."

Clay falls somewhat suspiciously silent at that. "No, that's not sexy at all," he mumbles then. "Um. Is that – I mean – fuck, is that likely?"

"If you don't know what the fuck you're doing and don't prepare properly, yeah, it kind of is," Desmond says and then leans his head back, wincing a little. Shit, that's tight. "Also there's that non-sexy other part to anal sex that is also not sexy. You know. The actually shitty part."

"Now you're just _trying_ to kill my boner," Clay bemoans and there is a thump which sounds suspiciously like him banging his forehead against the door. "Desmond –"

Desmond laughs a little breathily and then lets out a gasp – oh fucking _finally._ Arching his ass up and off the bathtub's bottom, he grinds up a little, twisting his finger in deep – yeah, there it is. "F-fuck," he breathes. Jesus Christ, he's still so fucking tight though. "Here's a sexier thought for you," he groans. "You'll get to fuck a virgin."

"... o _fuck,_ " Clay answers weakly, muffled into the door. "Desmond, come on, this is actually killing me, the fucking noises you're making – don't, don't do all the work in there by yourself. I wanna see you do this."

"Just let me clean up – fuck," Desmond groans and pulls his fingers out, breathing in and out. Okay, fuck, that'll have to do for clean up, he decides, and then reaches for the faucet. He's already a little tender and the warm water is not helping much, making the slightly abused flesh pulse with heavy heartbeat – he feels the burn already, and he barely got two fingers in.

Shuddering, Desmond gets up, throwing the vinyl gloves into the trash before finishes washing. He takes a moment to relax a little while towelling off to try to get his breathing into order. He's had sex plenty of times before – even with Clay. But fuck, he's still a little nervous. First time with a guy who from what he can tell has never had anal sex with anyone, never mind another guy…

Fuck, he wants it though.

Taking a breath, Desmond opens the door, and gets pretty much attacked by a naked Clay, who grabs at him and plasters himself all over him, pinning him to the wall beside the bathroom.

"You jerkass, I hate you," Clay groans, even while thrusting his hard cock into Desmond's hip and mouthing at his cheek, at the corner of his lips, his mouth. "You're actually trying to torture me, I swear – "

Desmond hums and leans up and into Clay's lips. "It's not so sexy to watch someone wash their asshole, you know," he says, not really sorry – if making Clay wait makes him like this, hell, he'll do it more often.

"It'd be sexy to watch you do it," Clay groans against his lips. "Did you fuck yourself with your fingers? Fuck, I wanted to see that –"

"You'll get to," Desmond grins and then pushes at Clay's hips. "We're nowhere near done here yet. Come on."

Clay is all but vibrating with eagerness as Desmond goes to the bed, reaching for the lube – and for another set of gloves. Clay makes a face at them. "What is with the gloves – you cleaned up already," he says. "Gloves aren't sexy."

"Infections aren't sexy either," Desmond says, tugging the left-hand glove on and giving him a look. "Also, seriously, there is nothing as hot as actually knowing what you're doing in bed, you _ass._ If you don't know that by now, I am very sorry for you. And all your past bed partners."

"Now look who's being the ass – _hole_ ," Clay says, at firstly reaching for him and then stopping and sitting back on his knees, as Desmond spreads out his legs. "Oh, hel _lo,_ " Clay says very faintly, staring down, his eyes little wider.

Desmond gives him a look and then gets lube all over his fingers. "Get me a pillow, will you? And grab a towel or something to put on it, I don't want to get lube all over the bedsheets."

Clay makes a noise which is halfway plaintive and halfway frustrated, but does as ordered, sliding the towel covered pillow in place under Desmond's ass. "Fuck, you're like – on display here," he murmurs and leans in. "This kind of – went from a medical horror show to porn real fast. Fuck, just – _look_ at you."

"Don't have the angle, I'm afraid," Desmond laughs and reaches downward.

The way _Clay_ goes all red at the sight is really something. His mouth hangs open and his eyes are wide – and as Desmond pushes his fingers in, the flush from his cheek goes all the way down his neck. Desmond lets out a laugh at the face he's making and Clay scowls, which somehow only makes him look _more_ turned on.

"Don't laugh," Clay snaps. "Fuck, this is – kinda new to me. I've never had full on sex with a fucking – porn star before, Jesus fuck."

"I'm not a porn star," Desmond says with a laugh and twists his fingers, just to see what it would do to Clay.

Clay almost whines, his eyes following the movement. "Well, you're _something_ ," he almost complains, "And this is like, like, fuck, I don't even know. Fucking _professional_. Fuck, this should not be as hot as it is."

Desmond looks at him curiously and then arches his hips a little to get at a better angle – still so fucking tight, but the lube is definitely helping. Huh, so Clay had figured it out. "For the record, it wasn't porn," he says. "I was just a, you know… between jobs, in really bad need of cash, and this club I knew was short a dancer…"

"Jesus fuck, you're a stripper?" Clay asks breathlessly.

Desmond shrugs, which is a very funny feeling when you got fingers up your ass. "It wasn't for long, few months," he says. "But you – oh fuck –" he leans his head back sharply. Hello, prostate, he thinks and lifts his right leg a little to get a better angle on it – aw, fucking, _yes._ "You, uh, you learn a lot in that crowd. There was this – guy I knew, got a really, really bad cuticle infection," he says. "From doing this stuff. Like, his finger swell up to the size of an orange, it was _gruesome_. Ever since it's been gloves or nothing."

Clay makes a sort of strangled noise at that, staring at Desmond's ass. "Fuck, you're getting off on this aren't you?"

"Learn your fucking anatomy, Clay, prostates are a thing," Desmond groans and lifts his leg higher until his foot comes off the bed. "And mine is a little fucking sensitive right now – fuck – hey could you, my leg, push it up."

The _look_ Clay gives him, Jesus. Desmond breathes in and out and then moans as Clay takes his knee and pushes it up and then back, bit by bit, until it's pretty much folded against Desmond's chest. "Fuck you're so flexible," Clay breathes, and from the corner of his eye Desmond can see his cock actually _twitch_ at the sight, precum beading at the head of Clay's cock, glistening wetly. "Jesus fucking – fuck, just look, look at you –"

"Now look who's getting off on it," Desmond groans and then blows out a breath. "I need more lube."

Clay gets it for him, almost fumbling the bottle twice before it lands on Desmond's belly. Desmond looks at him and then, just to torture the guy, pulls his fingers halfway out. "Pour some on my fingers. Come on."

"Fuck you," Clay whines, and leans back. He does drop the lube bottle this time, almost knocking off the bed entirely before he gets his hands on it and manages to even snap the cap open. He ends up getting more lube on Desmond's knuckles than his fingers – but it's an awkward angle. It still helps.

"How, uh, how does it feel?" Clay asks. "Does it hurt? You're not that hard."

"The fact that I'm hard at all is a fucking miracle," Desmond snorts and twists his fingers deep inside, to spread the lube around. "It's fucking awkward, Clay, that's what it is. It's awkward and it burns and it feels weird as shit, and my body isn't used to it."

"Fuck," Clay says and swallows. "You, you do want it though, right?" he asks then. "Fuck, watching you, I kind of want it. Like, a lot."

"You'd let me fuck you?" Desmond asks, a little surprised. Not that he'd expected Clay to be completely against it, the guy seems pretty open if also a little awkward. But this soon, that's a bit of a surprise. Might be the horniness talking though.

"Your fucking fingers, Jesus," Clay groans. "You have no idea how this looks."

Desmond grins, and spreads the said fingers a little – and Clay lets out a noise like it's _him_ who's being stretched out. "Fuck yeah," Desmond breathes and leans his head back. "I bet you'd feel amazing on my fingers. Fuck – I'd make you squirm so badly, I'd make you _writhe_. Can't get the angle on myself properly, but I could milk you so sweetly –"

"Desmond for fuck's sake, shut up," Clay says, sounding like he's trying to make it a command, but it sounds a bit more like begging.

Desmond grins at him and pulls his fingers out slowly. "Condom," he says while taking the glove off, turning it inside out and throwing it away. "And more lube."

Clay almost falls off the bed in his haste to get them and Desmond laughs, stretching out his slightly cramping leg and then tugging the pillow from under his ass. Then he turns around, his hips on the towel, his legs slightly spread.

The way Clay curses at the sight of him on his stomach is really, really gratifying.

"Fuck, I am probably going to blow my load before I even get in you," Clay moans, fumbling the condom on with a whine and then lubing up, this time with a bit more success. "Fuck, Desmond, what, how – tell me how do I do this."

Desmond, possibly again just to be an ass, leans his cheek onto the sheets and then reaches back with both hands, taking hold of his ass cheeks and spreading them slightly. How's _that_ for a display. "I'm sure you can figure out what comes next," he says, grinning to himself as Clay curses him to hell and back as result.

When Clay manages to push in close, spread him open and push slowly and torturously in… _yeah_. It hurts and it's awkward and Clay keeps cursing up a storm in his ear, his whole body shaking with the strain. Desmond bites into the sheets to keep himself from making any noises, because, fuck, it still hurts, his body is so not used to it yet. Judging by the way Clay groans he feels it too, how tight Desmond keeps clenching on him even as he tries to relax and bear down and _accept_. It's still messy and painful.

"Slowly, Clay – fuck, _slowly_ –"

But, oh, it's so good too, it's fucking _glorious_. Clay settles within him with all of the subtlety a cock up your ass can ever have, and Desmond arches into the burning invasion of it almost deliriously. Fuck, he'd forgotten how damn invasive it feels. He can feel Clay up in his throat and all the way down in his fucking _toes_. Just fucking consumed, all of him.

"Desmond, Desmond," Clay almost sobs in his ear. "F-fuck, _Desmond_ –"

Not a bad way to lose one's virginity, all things considered.


	19. Chapter 19

Clay reaches out and runs a hand over Desmond's bare arm, down to his waist, around him to rest at the middle of his chest. He meant to shake him awake, but there's just so much nice warm skin there that it is impossible to not touch more now that he's begun.

"Desmond?" he murmurs in Desmond's ear, kissing his neck. "Wakey wakey, I have news."

"Mmnh," Desmond answers and tries to roll away. "What?" he mumbles while pressing his face into the pillow.

"Your mom made it to the US."

Desmond hums in disinterest at first, trying to burrow through the pillow and right into the mattress. Then he stills and tilts his head a little. "Trouble?"

"Not from what I've seen – they got her through customs and everything. Helps that Abstergo doesn't seem to be looking for her," Clay says, rubbing his hand over Desmond's waist and back and then reaching for the laptop. "Their plane landed about two hours ago, after which I lost them in New York traffic, sadly. She was accompanied by three Assassins and made it through apparently without an incident."

Desmond blinks at him and then turns to face him, squirming around and then settling down, pressed against Clay to see the laptop. Clay turns it to show him the looped security footage he'd snatched up at the airport – just before tampering with it and covering Missus Miles' tracks a little. Nothing too bad, can't make it too obvious that the footage had been manipulated – but a slight blurring, as if the camera had a perfectly normal everyday malfunction.

"She made it," Desmond murmurs and rests his head down on his own bicep. "Good, that's good."

"You want me to send the decryption key?" Clay ask. "I'm going to send it to her own email – it's still active."

Desmond nods and then closes his eyes. "Yeah," he says. "Do that, yeah."

"Want me to add a message while I'm at it?"

Desmond doesn't answer immediately, licking his lips and swallowing. "Tell her I say hello."

Clay considers it for a moment. There hasn't yet been much on them on Hephaestus, nothing really – whatever Jackie has told them, it's been on the down low. But if she had told the Assassins' their identities… it would probably be known by now. Their names would be on their network – the low-key ongoing search for Desmond Miles would've been added to by the identity of Desmond Lane, and people would've been informed of their suspected location, or at least last known location…

There's been nothing though – no one's gone to Monteriggioni, and they still think Desmond is somewhere in the US, possibly in Midwest but the search grid has long since been widened to include the whole US. Which means, or at least Clay hopes it means… that she took Desmond's words to heart and hasn't spilled the beans, at least not yet.

Which makes leaving a message a little awkward – or would, if they didn't already have a functional set of code names in place. Clay works at the laptop in silence for a moment, cracking Hephaestus open again and worming his way through the systems all the while thinking about how to put it. He doesn't exactly have an email of his own in the system – but that's hardly a problem. He can just make one.

 

> From: 16  
>  To: Jacqueline Miles  
>  Subject: 17 says hi
> 
> M O R Y M N O E S  
>  E N C E O L C H T  
>  H O N B T L O T C  
>  T D E O S A T O A  
>  P E D S N L S T F  
>  L E D U O O E T F  
>  E A I E I R I N T  
>  H S H K T T K E R  
>  T U A A A N S S A

"You made that the password?" Desmond asks with a little amusement, peering up at the laptop screen one eyed.

Clay doesn't answer at first, tapping a nail against the enter. "Did you ever figure them out?" he asks quietly. "The messages I left?"

The messages the real Subject Sixteen had left, anyway, the ones he'd bled out for, frantically trying to write the whole history of future into the walls of his prison for a guy he didn't know and kind of hated and didn't for a moment trust. Clay doesn't have those memories now, but he has the memories of planning the work, of plotting out what to write, memorising the pattern. Couldn't make them too obvious, but had to make them – something.

The code he'd used to hide his message is almost juvenile, looking back to it now. He can't remember what he was thinking. It wasn't like there was hiding the work from Abstergo – even if he encrypted everything in some elaborate code they had super computers to crack that shit. And all he wrote was wiped out and there was no reason for Vidic to think they'd be readable after wards. So why the code?

To test Desmond.

Clay looks down to Desmond, in his full naked and sleepy glory. "Did you?" he asks quietly.

Desmond sighs and lowers his eyes. "I'm not as smart as you Clay. And the moment I got to the point where I could even see them, Lucy sort of… steamrolled me out of there," he admits. "I figured out couple of them, yeah, and Shaun eventually got all the rest but… nothing soon enough to really make a difference. It wasn't until after Minerva, that I really understood. I'm sorry."

Clay bows his head a little and then looks away. In the end, Sixteen's best final message had been himself, hidden in the data – not the blood he bled. Desmond on other hand is complete opposite – his bloody is so informative it's close to being fucking holy.

"Is there anything else you want to tell her, other than hello?" Clay asks.

Desmond is quiet for a moment. "No," he says finally. "Send it."

Clay hits sent and then settles back to wait and watch where the message would be received – where the impact of it would land. Desmond says nothing, looking at him with one eye from where he lies beside him but offering no excuses or condolences.

"I am better now," Clay mutters and runs a hand through his hair. "Time and lack of Animus do fucking wonders to your mental stability. I'm not – not going to do that again. Cut myself and bleed all over the place." But to know that he did it pretty much for fucking _nothing_ …

Desmond doesn't answer, just shuffles a little closer and presses a slow and sad kiss on his side before sighing and nuzzling into his skin.

Clay stares at the laptop screen in silence for a moment, waiting until the message got read. It didn't take long – a login from near Las Vegas of all places. William Miles, Clay assumes, and leans back against the pillows.

After a while of waiting, Clay sighs and looks down at Desmond, who is peering up to him sleepily. "Wanna go out?" he offers.

"If you do," Desmond says and hums. "I'm not in hurry to get up and walk around for hours on end right now though."

"Hm?"

"My ass hurts."

It's said with such bored tone that it takes Clay a moment to register it. Then he can feel heat crawling up to his cheeks and grin spread to his lips. "Really now," he says and then his more rational brain catches up. "I'm sorry, shit – I didn't hurt you, right?"

"No, it's fine – just bit sore. Completely normal with anal sex," Desmond says with a yawn smothered against Clay's side, stretching out his legs a little and then settling back down with a sigh. "I wouldn't say no to a long warm bath right now. Maybe a massage…"

Clay considers him. "I bet I can figure out how to give a massage," he says interestedly and puts the laptop aside. "I bet I'm great at massages."

Desmond grins and then reaches for his neck, pulling Clay down even as he rolls to his back. "I bet you are," he says and claims a kiss from Clay's lips.

* * *

 

They end up lounging the day away between the bed and bathroom, taking a long and luxurious bath together until they both turn pruney before heading back to the bed and just lying around. Desmond is all loose-limbed throughout the entire day, stretching himself out like a happy cat in a beam of sunlight and Clay is between distraction and _despair_ with him.

Especially when they do try out the massage and yeah there are some mixed results there… but getting his hands not only all over Desmond, but getting to do pretty much what he wants with all that beautiful taunt skin, feeling up all the long, well defined muscles…

Fuck, it makes Clay really wish he had a sculptor in his ancestry, because a statue of Desmond would be gorgeous. And the way Desmond just lulls under his hand, all relaxed and nice. Clay would call him fucked out, but it's not that, exactly – the sex… probably hadn't been that great, all things considered.

"I like the effect more than the climax," Desmond admits while Clay rolls his hands over his shoulder blades, trying not to grind against Desmond's – glorious, naked, delicious, so fucking _pert_ but also sore – ass. "Build up and aftermath. Orgasms are just… I mean, they're nice, won't say no to them – but this is nice too."

"You are so weird," Clay murmurs, following the line of his spine with his thumbs, all the way from his neck down to his waist, fingers lightly digging into the long muscles of Desmond's back. He has dimples in the lower back, of course he does. Clay kind of wants to lick them.

"And you are hard," Desmond answers and tilts his head where it rests, on his folded arms, to look at him with one lazy eye. "Do you want a blow job?"

"Tempting," Clay admits, his thumbs pressing into the dimples before he carefully reaches lower, over the curve of Desmond's ass. He's sitting astride Desmond's perfect, muscular thighs, and right there, right in front of him…

"You're not getting that today," Desmond says, arching a brow at him. "You can just forget it."

"I wasn't – I just wanna look. Can I take a look?"

Desmond lets out a snort. "Just don't stick anything in me," he mutters and closes his eyes. "I'm serious about being a bit sore here."

"I wouldn't," Clay says and then, with what feels like some weird mixture of _reverence_ and also breaking a taboo, he spreads his fingers over Desmond's ass, his thumbs towards the crack, and spreads his cheeks ever so slowly.

 _God_.

Desmond hums under his touch and gaze and then reaches for the laptop. Clay looks up with a slight frown to see him open the laptop, not quite ignoring what Clay is doing, but just sort of… "Should I be insulted that you're getting distracted while I'm fondling your ass?" he asks, his whole system going a little confused. Because on one hand, _rude_ , but on other hand…

He is still fondling Desmond's ass. And Desmond is letting him – like really _letting him_. Like he's… Clay doesn't really have words for it.

Desmond hums and taps a couple of keys, opening the Hephaestus again and peering at his father's emails to see if anything's changed. "I'm not stopping you," he says, smiling a little. "Go right ahead, Clay."

Fuck – okay. Clay swallows, running his thumbs over the sweet little fold of skin between Desmond's perfect buttocks and his thighs, feeling how firm the muscles under are, even at resting state. Then he spreads out Desmond's cheeks again, looking up – Desmond's eyes are a little low-lidded, but he doesn't say anything.

His system decides then that it is hot. Desmond trusting him, letting him do whatever without supervision, that's hot.

Desmond making himself into a sort of weird non-participant sex object though, that's… Clay isn't so sure about that.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Clay lets go of Desmond's behind and stretches over him instead. Desmond definitely reacts to that, letting out a slight oof of breath and glancing back at him as Clay lays his weight on him. "Not a kink for you, then?" Desmond murmurs.

"I like you watching," Clay mutters a bit sullenly. "And reacting. And telling me what I can and can't do. You not really being there with me, that's… weird."

Fuck, that barely makes sense to him.

"Okay, I'm sorry," Desmond says and reaches awkwardly to run a hand over Clay's neck and bring his head closer to Desmond's shoulder so that he can press an awkward kiss to the corner of Clay's lips. "I'm just not really in the mood for it right now, but I don't mind if you are, or if you want to try stuff out."

Clay grumbles at him and then settles to lay a little to the side so that he's not crushing Desmond with his whole weight. "I'm not some sort of sex-crazed lunatic – I can just _not,_ you know."

"Okay," Desmond agrees and turns a little as Clay worms his arms around him. Clay is still hard and Desmond's ass is now against his cock which is not helping. "I kind of like you being a sex-crazed lunatic though," Desmond admits with an embarrassed little chuckle. "You seem happier."

Clay presses his face in the back of Desmond's neck. "That couldn't possibly have anything to do with you, now could it, Seventeen," he mutters then and sighs. "Sex is nice. Not so many nice things in my life, before. Sex with you is fucking _fantastic_. But I want to try stuff with you, not… not _on_ you like you're a fucking experimental subject. Jesus."

"Alright, alright, completely reciprocal sex activities only, then," Desmond laughs and turns a little, so that they're spooning together. He still has one hand on the laptop, and tapping a few keys he brings out an email – and then lifts his head a little.

 

> From: William Miles  
>  To: 16  
>  Subject: Allies
> 
> Thank you for bringing Jacqueline back to us.
> 
> We have begun going through the information you have given us and so far it is proving to be immensely enlightening. Understandably, we cannot trust any of it yet, nor can we act on it – not until this info has been vetted and proven accurate. I understand that you likely will not reveal your sources or how you acquired this data – I admit, I have my own theories about its origins, but for now I will keep them to myself. Needless to say, we will be making a thorough investigation regardless.
> 
> Should this information prove accurate, it will change everything.
> 
> Jacqueline indicated you might be interested in sharing more information concerning similar matters in the future – I would like to know at what cost. What is it that you are after? Why share any of this at all? Why return Jacqueline to us? She says you might be an ally – but an ally we know nothing about is an ally hard to trust.
> 
> \- William Miles

"Well now," Clay hums. "That's something, isn't it?"

Desmond rests his head on the sheets and sighs. "It really is, isn't it?" he mutters, frowning a little. "I… don't think Mom told them. Do you?"

"Doesn't look like it. Calling us only Sixteen and Seventeen might mean either she didn't tell them much of anything or…"

"Or she just said we were subjects like her?" Desmond wonders.

"Or something like it. Either way, doesn't look like they know much about us," Clay says and then grins. "Can you imagine it though? I bet they're like an ant nest that's been kicked over, trying to figure out how I got to their systems," Clay murmurs, smiling.

"Any chance of them tracking the activity back to us, though, now that we're using their email system?" Desmond asks, glancing at him.

"Nah. Hephaestus was designed to be untraceable – the whole network is a scramble, you can't pinpoint where any emails are being sent from, even if you sent them yourself. Even the system itself doesn't know."

"So, no Assassins kicking our door down," Desmond hums and relaxes a little.

"Not today anyway," Clay says and kisses his shoulder, watching the side of his face. Desmond is still frowning a little. "You thought she'd give you up to your dad, didn't you?"

"Well," Desmond says a little distantly. "It was a possibility, wasn't it?"

Clay hums and doesn't answer - because yeah, it was, it really was. Honestly he's a bit surprised she hadn't done it in the end - and maybe tiny bit suspicious that she _had_ and had then told William to keep it quiet on the network so as to not tip them off. That would be pretty tricky though, and Clay doubts they could've really pulled it off, not under his nose.

It would be nice, to be able to trust someone to not fuck them over at the first possible chance. Especially someone like Jackie, who knows a little too much to his liking, really.

Clay takes a breath. "So, what do you want to do about it? Shall we form an alliance with the good old Brotherhood?"

Desmond tilts his head to look at him. "What do you think?"

Clay traces his lips over Desmond's shoulder, where he can feel the bones under the firm skin and muscle. "I think it would be too big of a risk," he says after a moment of thought. "Familiarity leads to complacency, letting down guards, giving up secrets. We might take all the care in the world but all it will take is one slip and it'll go wrong. And you know what trusting people like William Miles leads to."

Desmond closes his eyes, leaning his head back down. "My thoughts exactly," he says and reaches over to close the laptop slowly, but with finality. "Maybe one day, once we're in a better position and have stronger footing… maybe. Right now, they could just sweep the rug from under us – we're still on unstable ground here."

Clay kisses his shoulder again and then settles down with him. They are just free-floating entities right now, yeah, and it wouldn't take much to put an end to all their plans. "We've set one cornerstone," he says. "Maybe it's time we start setting up another. I know we have time here, but as lovely as it is to just lounge about… time is still ticking. It's always ticking."

And as much as both of them kind of want to ignore it and just enjoy everyday life, the knowledge is always there, and always pressing on them, and it's never going to go away, is it? The world is on the deadline. And the longer they ignore it…

"Yeah," Desmond agrees and sighs. "Yeah, it really is, isn't it?"

They book a flight to the US the very next day.

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go again.


End file.
